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"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, And water from the spring.
Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
Man wants but little here below,
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,'
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure,
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,
No stores beneath its humble thatch
And now, when busy crowds retire
And spread his vegetable store,
The lingering hours beguil'd.
Around in sympathetic mirth
The cricket chirrups in the hearth;
But nothing could a charm impart,
His rising cares the Hermit spied,
'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,
'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 A maid in all her charms.
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 liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
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 worth 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,
'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 long-lost Edwin here,
Restor'd to love and thee.