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"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,

My blessing and repose.

"No flocks, that range the valley free,

To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities nie, · I learn to pity them.

“But from the mountain's grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd,

And water from the spring.

" Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heav'n descends,

His gentle accents fell;
The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell. . .

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay, A refuge to the neighbouring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.

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 prest, and smild, And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The ling’ring hours beguild.

Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries; The cricket chirrups in the hearth,

The crackling faggot fies.

But nothing could a charm impart

To sooth the stranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spy'd,

With answering care opprest; “And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry'd,

“The sorrows of thy breast?

"From better habitations spurn’d,

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 triding 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.

Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise

Swift mantling to the view,
Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

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The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms,
The lovely stranger stands confest

A maid in all her charms.

*** And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn,” she cry'd, - 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.

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" My father liv'd beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,

He had but only me:

"To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumber'd suitors cane;
Who prais’d me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feign'd, a flame,

• Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,

But never talk'd 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 refin’d,
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 try'd 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.

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