an attachment he discovered to my daughter: he would in a jesting manner call her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a set of ribbons, hers was the finest. I know not how, but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to assume the superior airs of wisdom. Our family dined in the field, and we sate, or rather reclined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar redbreast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. “I never sit thus," says Sophia, "but I think of the two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who were struck dead in each others arms. There is something so pathetic in the description, that I have read it a hundred times with new rapture." "In my opinion," cried my son, "the finest strokes in that description are much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet understands the use of contrast better; and upon that figure, artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic depends." "It is remarkable," cried Mr. Burchell, "that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in their defects; and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, without plot or -connection; a string of epithets, that improve the sound without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, Madam, while I thus reprehend others, you will think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate; and indeed I have made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free from those I have mentioned." A BALLAD. "TURN, gentle hermit of the dale, To where yon taper cheers the vale, "For here, forlorn and lost I tread, "Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, "Here, to the houseless child of want, My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant, "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 ; 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, For earth-born cares are wrong. Man wants but little here below, Soft, as the dew from heav'n descends. The modest stranger lowly bends, Far in a wilderness obscure No stores beneath its humble thatch The wicket, opening with a latch, And now, when busy crowds retire And spread his vegetable store, But nothing could a charm impart, His rising cares the hermit spied, "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, "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 The love-lorn guest betray'd. Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise Swift mantling to the view, The bashful look, the rising breast, The lovely stranger stands confest And, "Ah, forgive a stranger rude, "But let a maid thy pity share, "My father liv'd beside the Tyne, And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, "To win me from his tender arms, "Each hour a mercenary crowd "In humble, simplest habit clad, "The blossom opening to the day, 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, "But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, "And there forlorn, despairing, hid, "Forbid it, heav'n!" the hermit cried, "Turn, Angelina, ever dear, Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, "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, While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and, immediately after, a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. The sportsman was the Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters; and I could perceive that Sophia, in the fright, had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell's arms for protection. The gentleman came up, and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he was ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sat down by my youngest daughter; and, sportsman like, offered her what he had killed that morning. She was |