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, 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; 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 fruit supplied, "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego, Soft as the dew from Heav'n descends, 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 And now, when busy crowds retire And spread his vegetable store, The ling'ring hours beguiled. Around, in sympathetic mirth, But nothing could a charm impart His rising cares the Hermit spied, "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, "The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitations spurn'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, "And love is still an emptier sound, On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. "For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, Surprised he sees new beauties rise, 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, A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, "To win me from his tender arms, Unnumbered suitors came; "Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove : "In humble, simplest habit clad, "And when, beside me in the dale, His breath lent fragrance to the gale, "The blossom opening to the day, The dews of Heav'n refined, Could naught of purity display To emulate his mind. "The dew, the blossom on the tree, "For still I tried each fickle art, 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 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 shall we never, never part, My life, my all that's mine? "No, never, from this hour to part, The sigh that rends thy constant heart AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH of a MAD DOG. GOOD people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song, In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, A kind and gentle heart he had, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends; The dog, to gain some private ends, Around from all the neighboring streets, The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, But soon a wonder came to light, The man recovered of the bite, |