"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, "No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn: "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, 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 A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, No stores beneath its humble thatch Requir❜d a master's care; The wicket, op'ning with a latch, And now when busy crowds retire 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, But nothing could a charm impart For grief was heavy at his heart, His rising cares the hermit spy'd, "And whence, unhappy youth," he cry'd, "The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitations 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, "And what is friendship but a name, A shade that follows wealth or fame, "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, Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise, The bashful look, the rising breast, The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms. "And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cry'd; "Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heav'n and you reside. "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 Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,. |