"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;
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
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 Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd, and smil'd;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguil'd.

Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries;

The cricket chirrups in the hearth;
The crackling faggot 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 opprest:
And,' Whence, unhappy youth,' he cried
'The sorrows of thy breast?

'From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove;

Or grieve for friendship anreturn'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,
And 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.

Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view!
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

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

The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms.

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,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain ;

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 well my life shall pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.

'And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

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.

Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign:

And shall we never, never part,
My life-my all that's mine?

'No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;

The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too."