Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo; Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound, And half the business of destruction done: Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade! Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, THE HERMIT. A Ballad. FIRST PRINTED IN THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 1765. The following Letter, addressed to the Printer of the St. James' Chronicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767. SIR, As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one; and I think so still. I said, I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one1 by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual 1 "The Friar of Orders Gray." Reliques of Ancient Poetry. 2 Late Bishop of Dromore. good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing; and were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature. I am, Sir, Yours, &c. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE HERMIT. *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, "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 rusty couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. |