An Amour Which Promises Little Good Fortune; yet May Be
Productive of Much. The Vicar of Wakefield | ||
8. An Amour Which Promises Little Good Fortune; yet May Be Productive of Much.
THE next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency of his return; but I could not refuse him my company and fireside. It is true his labor more than requited his entertainment, for he wrought among us with vigor, and either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself foremost. Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an attachment he discovered to my daughter. He would, in a jesting man ner, call her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a set of ribands, hers was the finest. I knew not how, but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to assume the superior airs of wisdom.
Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather reclined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread
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 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 fruit supplied,
And water from the spring.
All earth-born cares are wrong;
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
Illustration absent.
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 neighboring poor,
And strangers led astray.
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 ev'ning rest;
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gayly press'd and smil'd;
And skill'd in legendary lore,
The ling'ring hours beguiled.
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 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.
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 lovelorn guest betray'd.
Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colors 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.
Unnumber'd suitors came;
Who praised 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 Heav'n refined,
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.
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;
'T was so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."
"Forbid it, Heav'n!" the Hermit cried,
And clasp'd her to his breast;
The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide,-
'T was 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."
While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and immediately after a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the 'Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably
But as men are most capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest judgments of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished with different abilities, adapted for mutual inspection.
An Amour Which Promises Little Good Fortune; yet May Be
Productive of Much. The Vicar of Wakefield | ||