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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 oppress'd; '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,
But 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.

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'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 confess'd
A maid in all her charms.

And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn,' she cried;

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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.

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'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: Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love.

'In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

'And when beside me in the dale

He caroll'd lays of love;

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.

The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refin'd,
Could nought of purity display,
To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine;

Their charms were his, but woe to me!
Their constancy was mine.

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'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;

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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 wondering fair one turned 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.

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Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And ev'ry 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.'

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

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GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.