POPULAR BRITISH BALLADS ANCIENT AND MODERN By Various Chosen and edited by R. Brimley Johnson Illustrated By W. C. Cooke In Four Volumes Volume III 1894 THE HERMIT [Illustration: 9022] |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 Whateer 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 ling'ring hours beguiled. Around, in sympathetic mirth, Its tricks the kitten tries, The cricket chirrups on the hearth, The crackling faggot 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 opprest: 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? "And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest; On earth unseen, or only found