THE

THE HERMIT;

A BALLAD.

The following letter, addressed to the printer of the St. James's Chronicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767.

SIR,-As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as concise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the book was a good one, and I think so still. I said I was told by the bookseller that it was then first published; but in that, it seems, I was misinformed, and my reading was not extensive enough to set me right.

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad I published some time ago, from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two picces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years ago and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me with his usual good humor, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cen

* Friar of Orders Gray. Reliques of Ancient Poetry, vol. i, book 2. No. 17.

to, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty an ecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing; and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his frendship and learning. for communications of a much more important nature.—I am, Sir, yours, etc. OLIVER GOLDSMITH

THE HERMIT.

TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.

For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem length'ning 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, To slaughter I condemn;

Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them:

But from the mountain's grassy side, A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 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 heaven descends, His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily press'd and smiled; And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguiled.

Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups on the hearth,
The crackling fagot 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 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,
Or unregarded love?

'Alas! the joys that fortune brings,

Are trifling, and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.

'And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?