THE

HERM I T.

"TURN, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way,

To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.

"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 dang'rous 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 pow'r 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 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 neighb'ring poor
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care;

The wicket, op'ning with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire

To take their ev'ning rest,

The hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily prest, and smil'd; And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The ling'ring hours beguil'd.

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 woe;

For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied,

With answ'ring care opprest:

"And whence, unhappy youth," he crie'd,

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,
And 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.