For here, forlorn and lost, I tread,
With fainting steps and slow-
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening 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 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
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received 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 smiled;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
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 wo;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the IIermit 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.

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.
Surprised, 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,
"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 lived 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 arins,

Unnumber'd suitors came;

Who praised 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 refined,
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 wo to ine,

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 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,
Restored 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."

AN ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.*

Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous 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.

This and the following poem appeared in the "Vicar of Wakefield."