THE HERMIT:

A BALLAD.

(First printed in 1765.)

The following Letter, addressed to the Printer of the 'St. James's Chronicle,' appeared in that Paper, in June, 1767.]

SIR,

As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one; and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, from one by the ingenious Mr. Percy I do not think there is any great resemblance between the twoieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me, with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scares 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 ba lad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.

I am, Sir,

Yours, &c.

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 fruits and herbs 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 bencath 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 ling'ring hours beguil'd.

Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in 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 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 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,
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.

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 liv'd beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,

He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumber'd suitors came;
Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt or feign'd a flame.

• Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.

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,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but, woe to ma,
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 I.'

Forbid it, Heaven!' the Hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wandering fair-one turn'd to chide ; 'Twas Edwin's self that prest!

Turn Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to sce
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.'