No ftores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a mafter's care!
The wicket opening with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now when bufy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his penfive gueft;

And spread his vegetable store,
And gayly preft, and smil'd,
And skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguil'd.

Around in fympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
To footh the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rifing cares the hermit spy'd,

With answering care oppreft:

And whence, unhappy youth,' he cry'd,

The forrows of thy breaft?

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.

• And 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 love is still an emptier found,
The modern fair one's jeft,
On earth unfeen, or only found
To warm the turtle's neft.

← For shame, fond youth, thy forrows hush,
And spurn the fex,' he faid:
But, while he spoke, a rifing blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surpriz'd he fees new beauties rife

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

As bright, as tranfient too.

The

The bashful look, the rifing 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 unhallowed thus intrude
• Where heaven and you refide.

'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 fuitors came;
• 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 reft young Edwin bow'd,

But never talk'd of love.

In humble fimpleft habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;

• Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

The bloffom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refin'd,
• Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind,

The dew, the blossom on the tree,
• With charms inconstant shine ;
Their charms were his, but woe to me,
Their conftancy was mine.

And there forlorn defpairing hid,
I'll lay me down and die :
"Twas fo for me that Edwin did,
And fo for him will I.'

• Forbid it, heaven!' the hermit cry'd, And clasp'd her to his breast:

&

The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, "Twas Edwin's self that preft.

No, never, from this hour to part, • We'll live and love fo true;

The figh that rends thy conftant heart,

• Shall break thy Edwin's too.'

See A March Meme 13 4 »