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"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 fruit supplied, And water from the spring.

“Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
For 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 the wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay:
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,
And stranger led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir❜d a master's care;
The wicket opening with a latch
Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire
To revels or to rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;

And spread his vegetable store,

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

The lingering hours beguil❜d.

Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirps upon 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 answering care oppress'd: "And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried, "The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitation 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:

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“My father liv'd beside the Tyne; A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd for mine; He had but only me.

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"The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but, woe is me!
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.

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"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 wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide;
'Twas Edwin's self that press'd.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor❜d 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."


THE lovely young Lavinia once had friends; And fortune smil'd, deceitful, on her birth: For, in her helpless years, depriv'd of all, Of ev'ry stay, save innocence and heav'n, She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old, And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd Among the windings of a woody vale; By solitude and deep surrounding shades, But more by bashful modesty, conceal'd. Together, thus, they shunn'd the cruel scorn,

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