to, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing; and, were it not for the busy disposition 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 frendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.-I am, Sir, yours, etc. OLIVER GOLDSMITH

THE HERMIT.

'TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
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.'

'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, 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 supplied,
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 in a wilderness obscure,
The lonely mansion lay,

A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily press'd and smiled; And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguiled.

Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups on the hearth,
The crackling fagot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spied,

With answering care oppress'd:

And, Whence unhappy youth,' he cried,

The sorrows of thy breast?

• From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?

'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 charm that lulls to sleep;

A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?

‹ And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest ; * On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

"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.

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colors o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger stands confess'd,
A maid in all her charms.

6

And, Ah! forgive a stranger rude

A wretch forlorn,' she cried:

• Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heaven and you reside.

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 lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he:

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,

He had but only me.