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Waste sandy valleys, ouce perplex'd with thoru,
But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays,
EDWIN AND ANGELINA.
BY DR. GOLDSMITIT.
Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way
With hospitable ray.
* For here, forloru and lost, I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Seem lengthening as I go."
Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
To lure thee to thy doom.
His rising cares the Hermit spy'd,
With answering care opprest; “ And whence, unhappy youth,” he cry'd,
“ The sorrows of thy breast?
“ From better habitation spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove;
Or unregarded love?
“ Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifting, 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;
And leaves the wretch to weep?
“ 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.
Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise
Swift mantling to the view,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms,
A maid in all her charms.
“ And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn,” she cry'd, « 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
Companion of her way.
My father liv'd 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 prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd, a fame.
« Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.
“ In bumblest, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
“ The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refin'd, Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.
“The dew, the blossoms of the tree,
With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his; but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.
“ For still I try'd 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.