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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 bint 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,

• To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

• 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.

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.

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