D

AND

ANGELINA.

By Dr. GOLDSMITH.

EIGN, faint-like tenant of the dale,

To guide my nightly way

To yonder fire that chears the vale

With hofpitable ray.

For here, deferted, as I tread
With fainting fteps and flow,
The wild, immeasurably spread,
Seems lengthening as I go.

Forbear,

Forbear, my fon, the fage replies,
To tempt the lonely gloom,
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open ftill,

And tho' my portion is but fcant,
I give it with good will.

Then turn to-night, and freely share,

Whate'er my cell beftows,

My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My bleffing and repose.

No flocks, that range the valley free,
To flaughter I condemn ;.

Taught by that power that pities me,
I learn to pity them.

But from the mountain's graffy fide
A guiltless feaft I bring;

A fcrip with herbs and fruits fupply'd,
And water from the spring.

Then trav'ller turn, thy cares forego,
For earth-born cares are wrong;
Man wants but little here below,

"Nor wants that little long."

Soft

Soft as the dew from 'heav'n defcends,

His gentlé accents fell,

The modeft ftranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obfcure

The lonely manfion lay,
A refuge to th' unfhelter'd poor,
And strangers led aftray.

No ftores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care,

But the door, op'ning with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now, when bufy crowds retire
To take their evening reft,
The hermit trim'd his pleasant fire,
And chear'd his penfive gueft;

And fpread his vegetable ftore,
And gaily preft and smil'd,
And, fkill'd in legendary lore,
The ling'ring hours beguil'd.

While round, in fympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries,

The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.

But

But nothing mirthful could affuage

The penfive ftranger's woe,

For grief had feiz'd his early age, .
And tears would often flow.

His rifing cares the hermit spy'd,,
With answering care opprest;

And whence, unhappy youth, he cry'd,
The forrows of thy breast?

From better habitations fpurn'd,
Reluctant doft 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 ftill than they.

Say, what is friendship? but a name,
A charm that lulls to fleep;

A fhade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep.

And what is love? an empty found,

The modern fair one's jeft; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's neft.

For fhame, fond youth, thy forrows hufh,

And fpurn the fex, he faid;

But while he spoke, a rifing blush

His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surpriz'd he fees new beauty rife
Expanding to the view,

Like colours o'er the morning fkies,
As bright, as tranfient too.

The bafhful look, the rifing breaft,
Alternate spread alarms;

The lovely ftranger ftands confeft
A maid in all her charms.

And ah! forgive a ftranger rude,
A thing forlorn, fhe cry'd,

Whofe feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heaven and you refide.

Forgive, and let thy pious care
A heart's diftrefs allay,

That feeks repofe, but finds defpair
Companion of the way.

My father liv'd, of high degree
Remote befide the Tyne,
And as he had but only me,

His opulence was mine.

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