"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, "Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant, "Then turn to-night, and freely share "No flocks that range the valley free Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them. "But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; 66 A scrip with herbs and fruit supplied, And water from the spring. Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; For earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heaven descends, His gentle accents fell : The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in the wilderness obscure A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, No stores beneath its humble thatch And now when busy crowds retire The hermit trimm'd his little fire, And spread his vegetable store, The lingering hours beguil'd. Around in sympathetic mirth But nothing could a charm impart, His rising cares the hermit spied, With answering care oppress'd: "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, "The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitation spurn'd, Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, "Alas! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay; And those, who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. "And what is friendship but a name, A shade that follows wealth or fame, "And love is still an emptier sound, "For shame, fond youth; thy sorrows hush, Surpris'd! he sees new beauties rise, The bashful look, the rising breast, The lovely stranger stands confess'd “And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, “But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. "My father liv'd beside the Tyne; A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd for mine; He had but only me. "To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came; 66 Who prais'd me for imputed charms, Each hour the mercenary crowd "In humblest, simplest habit clad, "The blossom opening to the day, "The dew, the blossom on the tree, Their constancy was mine. "For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain. Till, quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. "But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And stretch me where he lay. "And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 66 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, Forbid it, heaven," the hermit cried, The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide; "Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, "Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And shall we never, never part, No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, XV.-LAVINIA. THE lovely young Lavinia once had friends; And fortune smil'd, deceitful, on her birth: For, in her helpless years, depriv'd of all, Of ev'ry stay, save innocence and heav'n, She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old, And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd Among the windings of a woody vale; By solitude and deep surrounding shades, But more by bashful modesty, conceal'd. Together, thus, they shunn'd the cruel scorn, |