"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. 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 Required a master's care; The wicket, opening with a latch, Received the harmless pair. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The hermit trimmed his little fire And cheered his pensive guest; And spread his vegetable store, And gaily pressed, and smiled; And skilled in legendary lore The lingering hours beguiled. Around, in sympathetic mirth, Its tricks the kitten tries; The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the strangers 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 cried, "The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitations spurned, Reluctant dost thou rove? Or grieve for friendship unreturned, Or unregarded love?