THE HERMIT
A BALLAD

[A correspondent of the St. James’s Chronicle having accused Goldsmith of imitating a ballad by Percy, he addressed the following letter to the Editor. In a later edition of the “Reliques,” Percy vindicated his friend from the charge, and said, “If there is any imitation in the case, they will be found both to be indebted to the beautiful old ballad, ‘Gentle Herdsman,’ which the Doctor had much admired in manuscript, and has finely improved.”

Sir,—A correspondent of yours accuses me of having taken a ballad, I published some time ago, from one (the “Friar of Orders Gray”) by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resemblance between the two pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy, some years ago; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at best) told me, with his usual good humour, the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shakspere into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little cento, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty anecdotes as these are scarce worth printing; and, were it not for the busy disposition of some of your correspondents, the public should never have known that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning for communications of a much more important nature.

I am, Sir, yours, &c.
Oliver Goldsmith.]

“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 who 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
 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 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,
 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—
 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 confest,
 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;
 Among 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 press’d.
“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 every 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.”