And while he sinks, without one arm to save, If to the city sped-what waits him there? Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn,-thine, the loveliest train,— Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene, Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing, Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake, Where crouching tigers wait their haplesss prey, Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day, Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, In all the silent manliness of grief. O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, At every draught more large and large they grow, Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, And half the business of destruction done; Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Unfit in these degenerate times of shame THE HERMIT: A BALLAD. (1766.) The following letter, addressed to the printer of the "St. James's Chronicle," eared in that paper in June, 1767 :— SIR, As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly on trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of irs, that I recommended Blainville's Travels because I thought the book was a ›d one; and I think so still. I said I was told by the bookseller that it was n first published: but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading s not extensive enough to set me right. Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published ne time ago from one1 by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any at resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago; and he (as we both nsidered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humour, the xt time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakespeare o a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may so call it, and highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing: d, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public ould never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I n obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more mportant nature. I am, Sir, yours, &c. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. (1) "The Friar of Orders Gray."-Reliq. of Anc. Poetry, vol. i. p. 243. THE HERMIT. "TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, "For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow, Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.' "Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. "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 side "But from the mountain's grassy "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 heaven descends Far in a wilderness obscure A refuge to the neighbouring poor No stores beneath its humble thatch And now, when busy crowds retire The lingering hours beguiled. 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 The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitations spurned, Reluctant dost thou rove? Or grieve for friendship unreturned, Or unregarded love? "Alas! the joys that Fortune brings Are trifling, and decay; "And love is still an emptier sound, or shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, prised he sees new beauties rise, bashful look, the rising breast, lternate spread alarms: lovely stranger stands confest - maid in all her charms. nd, ah! forgive a stranger rude, at let a maid thy pity share, y father lived beside the Tyne; dall his wealth was marked as mine,He had but only me. o win me from his tender arms Jnnumbered suitors came, o praised me for imputed charms, And felt or feigned a flame. Each hour a mercenary crowd n humble, simplest habits clad, And when beside me in the dale is breath lent fragrance to the gale, "The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refined, Could nought 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 touched my heart, I triumphed in his pain. "Till quite dejected with my scorn And sought a solitude forlorn, "But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, I'll seek the solitude he sought, "And there forlorn, despairing, hid, '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 turned to chide,'Twas Edwin's self that pressed. "Turn, Angelina, ever dear; Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, "Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign : And shall we never, never part, "No, never from this hour to part, The sigh that rends thy constant heart |