"Here to the houseless child of want And though my portion is but scant, "Then turn to-night, and freely share No flocks, that range the valley free, But from the mountain's grassy side A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd, "Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, His gentle accents fell; The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell, Far in a wilderness obscure A refuge to the neighbouring poor, No stores beneath its humble thatch And now, when busy crowds retire And spread his vegetable store, And gaily prest, and smil❜d, And, skill'd in legendary lore, The ling'ring hours beguil❜d. Around in sympathetic mirth But nothing could a charm impart To sooth the stranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spy'd, "And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd, "The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitations spurn'd, Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, "Alas! the joys that fortune brings And those who prize the paltry things, "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, And spurn the sex," he said: But while he spoke, a rising blush, His love-lorn guest betray'd. Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise The bashful look, the rising breast, 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 as mine, He had but only me: "To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came; Who prais'd me for imputed charms, And felt, or feign'd, a flame. "Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. "In humblest, simplest habit clad, "The blossom opening to the day, "The dew, the blossoms of the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his; but, woe to me, "For still I try'd each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And, while his passion touch'd my heart, "Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret where he died. |