"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 herbs and fruits supply'd, And water from the spring. "Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Soft as the dew from heav'n 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 neighbouring poor, And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch And now when busy crowds retire And spread his vegetable store, Around in sympathetic mirth But nothing could a charm impart For grief was heavy at his heart, His rising cares the Hermit spy'd, With answering care opprest; "And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd, "The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitation spurn'd, Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, "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 shade that follows wealth or fame, "And love is still an emptier sound, On earth unseen, or only found "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 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 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 "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 With richest proffers strove; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. "In humblest, simplest habit clad, "The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven 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 me, Their constancy was mine. "For still I try'd 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. |