‘ 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 dangerous 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 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 supplied, And water from the spring.
‘ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forgo; 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 neighbouring poor And strangers 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 take their evening 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 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 oppress'd; ‘ And whence, unhappy youth,’ he cried, ‘ 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, 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: But, while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surpris'd, he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view; Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms: The lovely stranger stands confess'd A maid in all her charms.
‘ And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn,’ she cried; ‘ Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heaven and you reside.
‘ But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.
‘ 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, And felt or feign'd a flame.
Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove: Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love.
‘ In humble, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me.
‘ And when beside me in the dale He caroll'd lays of love; His breath lent fragrance to the gale, And music to the grove.
‘ The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refin'd, Could nought of purity display, To emulate his mind.
‘ The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but woe to 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.
‘ Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died.
‘ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay.
‘ 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 wondering fair one turn'd to chide, ‘ Twas Edwin's self that prest.
‘ 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 ev'ry 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.’
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