"No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn: Taught by that Power that pities me, 1 learn to pity them: 'But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 'Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; Soft as the dew from heaven descends, The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure, No stores beneath its humble thatch And now, when busy crowds retire And spread his vegetable store, 3 he lingering hours beguil❜d. Around in sympathetic mirth But nothing could a charm impart, His rising cares the Hermit spied, And, Whence, unhappy youth,' he cried From better habitations spurn'd, Or grieve for friendship anreturn'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, On earth unseen, or only found '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, The lovely stranger stands confest And, Ah, forgive a stranger rude, But let a maid thy pity share, My father liv'd beside the Tyne, And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me. To win me from his tender arms, Who prais'd me for imputed charms, Each hour a mercenary crowd, In humble, simplest habit clad, No wealth or power had he; Wisdom and werth were all he had, But these were all to me. The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heav'n refin'd, Could nought of purity display, To emulate his mind, The dew, the blossoms of the tree, For still I tried each fickle art, 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, I'll seek the solitude he sought, And there forlorn, despairing, hid, And so for him will 1." 'Forbid it Heaven!' the Hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair one turn'd to chide; 'Twas Edwin's self that prest! Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy Jong-lost Edwin here, Restor'd to love and thee. |