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 pressed and smiled;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
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 answering care opprest:
“And whence, unhappy youth," he cried
"The sorrows of thy breast?
From better habitations spurned,
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,
And 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.
Surprised, 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 lived beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was marked as mine; He had but only me.
To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumbered suitors came;
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feigned, a flame.
Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talked of love.
In humblest, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had;
But these were all to me.
The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display,
To emulate his mind.
The dew, the blossoms of 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 :
Ill 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 clasped 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,
Restored 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."
A MORNING SONG.
ARK, hark! the lark at Heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
The steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes ;
With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise;
MOUNTAIN SCENERY.
HE western waves of ebbing day
Roll'd o'er the glen their level way:
Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
Was bathed in floods of living fire.
But not a setting beam could glow
Within the dark ravine below
Where twined the path, in shadow hid,
Round many a rocky pyramid,
Shooting abruptly from the dell
Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle;
Round many an insulated mass,
The native bulwarks of the pass;
Huge as the tower which builders vain,
Presumptuous, piled on Shinar's plain,
The rocky summits, split and rent,
Formed turret, dome, or battlement,
Or seem'd fantastically set
With cupola or minaret,
Crests-wild as pagod ever deck'd,
Or mosque of eastern architect.
Nor were those earth-born castles bare,
Nor lack'd they many a banner fair,
For, from their shiver'd brows display'd
Far o'er th' unfathomable glade,
All twinkling with the dewdrops sheen,
The briar-rose fell in streamers green,
And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,
Waved in the west wind's summer sighs.
Boon Nature scatter'd, free and wild,
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child.
Here eglantine embalm'd the air,
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there;
The primrose pale and violet flower
Found in each cliff a narrow bower;
Nightshade and foxglove, side by side,
Emblems of punishment and pride,
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