Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather reclined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each other from the opposite hedges, the familiar redbreast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. "I never sit thus," says Sophia, "but I think of the two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who were struck dead in each other's arms. There is something so pathetic in the description, that I have read it a hundred times with new rapture." "In my opinion," cried my son, "the finest strokes in that description are much below those in the 'Acis and Galatea' of Ovid. The Roman poet understands the use of _contrast_ better, and upon that figure, artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic depends." "It is remarkable," cried Mr. Burchell, "that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in their defects; and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, without plot or connection—a string of epithets that improve the sound without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate; and, indeed, I have made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free from those I have mentioned." A BALLAD. "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 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 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.