Yet ftay fair lady; rest awhile Beneath this cloyfter wall: See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, And drizzly rain doth fall. O ftay me not, thou holy friar; No drizzly rain that falls on me, Yet ftay, fair lady, turn again, Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love Thefe holy weeds I fought: And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought. But haply for my year of grace Might I ftill hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay. Now Now farewel grief, and welcome joy For fince I have found thee, lovely youth, PERCY. T URN, gentle hermit of the dale, To where yon taper cheers the vale, For here forlorn and loft I tread, Forbear, my son, the hermit cries, To lure thee to thy doom. Here Here to the houseless child of want, My door is open ftill; And tho' my portion is but fcant, Then turn to-night, and freely share No flocks that range the valley free, But from the mountain's graffy fide, A fcrip with herbs and fruits fupply'd, Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; Nor wants that little long. Soft Soft as the dew from heav'n defcends, His gentle accents fell: The modeft ftranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obfcure A refuge to the neighbouring poor, No ftores beneath its humble thatch Requir'd a master's care; And now when bufy crowds retire The hermit trimm'd his little fire, And spread his vegetable store, And gaily preft, and smil'd; And skill'd in legendary lore, Around in fympathetic mirth But nothing could a charm impart His rifing cares the hermit 'fpy'd, From better habitations fpurn'd, Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love? Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And thofe that prize the paltry things, More trifling ftill than they. And |