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, 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 '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, Soft as the dew from heaven descends, Far in a wilderness obscure, No stores bencath its humble thatch, And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, 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; But nothing could a charm impart, His rising cares the Hermit spied, "From better habitations spurn'd, Alas! the joys that fortune brings And what is friendship but a name, 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, Swift mantling to the view; The bashful look, the rising breast, And, Ah, forgive a stranger rude, 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, And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me. "To win me from his tender arms, • 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 dew, the blossoms of the tree, "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, And sought a solitude forlorn, But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 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, "Thus let me hold thee to my heart, No, never from this hour to part, The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too.' |