SIR,
As
S there is nothing I dislike so much as news.

fo
paper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit
me to be as concise as poflible in informing a cor-
respondent of yours, that I recommended Blain-
ville's Travels, because I thought the book was a
good one; and I think so still. I said, I was told
by the bookseller that it was then first published;
but in that, it seem's, I was mir-informed, and my
reading was not extensive enough to set me right.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, VOL. I.

с

from

from one by the irgenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy, some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifies at best) told me with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing: and, were it not for the busy difpofition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.

I

am,

Sir,

Yours, &c.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

* The Friar of Orders Gray, “ Reliq. of Anc. Poetry." vul. 1. p. 243•

THE

H · E R

M I T.

В А

L L A D.

TURN,

URN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
“ And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper chears the vale
66 With hospitable ray.

" For here forlorn and lost I tread,

" With fainting steps and slow ;
" Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

" Seem length'ning as I go."

ca
" Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,

“ To tempt the dangerous gloom;
" For yonder faithless phantom flies
“ To lure thee to thy doom.

C 2

6 Here

66 Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open ftill ; " And though my portion is but fcant,

“ I give it with good will.

“ Then turn to-night, and freely share

“ Whate'er my cell bestows ; “My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.

“ No flocks that range the valley free,

“ To slaughter I condemn :
Taught by that power that pities me,
“ I learn to pity them :

“ But from the mountain's grassy side

“ A guiltless feast I bring; “ A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd,

“ And water from the spring.

“ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ;

“ All 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 Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely manfion lay ;
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor

And strangers led aftray!

No ftores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care ;
The wicket op'ning with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,
The Hermie trimm'd his little fire,

And chear'd his penfive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,

And gayly preft, and smil'd; And, kill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguild.

Around in fympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth;

The crackling faggot fies.

But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe a stranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to low.

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His