'For here forlorn and lost I tread, 'Forbear, my son,' the Hermit cries, 'Here to the houseless child of want 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 'But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 'Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, Far in a wilderness obscure No stores beneath its humble thatch And now, when busy crowds retire And spread his vegetable store, But nothing could a charm impart His rising cares the Hermit spied, 'From better habitations spurn'd, Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 'Alas! the joys that fortune brings And those who prize the paltry things, 'And what is Friendship but a name; 'And Love is still an emptier sound, 'For shame, fond youth! thy sorrows hush, Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise, The bashful look, the rising breast, The lovely stranger stands confess'd And ah! forgive a stranger rude, Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 'But let a maid thy pity share, '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, Each hour a mercenary crowd |