EDWIN AND ANGELA

‘ 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 forgo;

All earth-born cares are wrong:

Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long.’

Soft as the dew from heav'n 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

Requir'd a master's care;

The wicket, opening with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,

The hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily press'd, and smil'd;

And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguil'd.

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 stranger's woe;

For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied,

With answ'ring 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?

‘ 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;

Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger stands confess'd

A maid in all her charms.

‘ And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn,’ she cried;

‘ 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 flame.

Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove:

Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd,

But never talk'd of love.

‘ In humble, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he;

Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

‘ And when beside me in the dale

He caroll'd lays of love;

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,

And music to the grove.

‘ The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refin'd,

Could nought of purity display,

To emulate his mind.

‘ The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine;

Their charms were his, but woe to me!

Their constancy was mine.

‘ For still I tried 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.

‘ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay;

I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

‘ And there forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die;

‘ Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I.’

‘ Forbid it, heaven!’ the hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast:

The wondering fair one turn'd to chide,

‘ Twas Edwin's self that prest.

‘ Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restor'd to love and thee.

‘ Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And ev'ry care resign;

And shall we never, never part,

My life — my all that's mine?

‘ No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true;

The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin's too.’