His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care oppress'd; "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove; Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, "Alas! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, "And what is friendship but a name, A shade that follows wealth or fame, "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. Surprised he sees new beauties rise Like colours o'er the morning skies, The bashful look, the rising breast, The lovely stranger stands confess'd, "And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried, "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 "My father lived 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 came; Who praised 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, "The blossom opening to the day, "The dew, the blossoms of the tree, "For still I tried 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. "But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, "And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, And so for him will I." "Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair-one turn'd to chide, "Twas Edwin's self that press'd. "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, We'll live and love so true; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too." THE THREE WARNINGS. A TALE. BY MRS. PIOZZI. THE tree of deepest root is found That love of life increased with years' This great affection to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day, Death call'd aside the jocund groom With him into another room, And looking grave, "You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." "With you! and quit my Susan's side! With you!" the hapless husband cried; "Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard! Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared : My thoughts on other matters go, This is my wedding-night, you know." |