EDWIN AND ANGELINA.
A BALLAD.
BY MR. GOLDSMITH.
Printed for the Amusement of the COUNTESS OF NORTHUMBERLAND.
DEIGN, saint-like tenant of the dale,
To guide my nightly way
To yonder fire, that chears the vale
With hospitable ray.
For here, deserted, as I tread
With fainting steps and slow,
The wild, immeasurably spread,
Seems lengthening as I go.
Forbear, my son, the sage replies,
To tempt the lonely 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 tho' 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 supply'd,
And water from the spring.
Then turn to-night, 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 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 th' unshelter'd poor
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care,
The wicket, op'ning with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trim'd his little fire,
And chear'd his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily prest and smil'd,
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The ling'ring hours beguil'd.
While round, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing mirthful could assuage
The pensive stranger's woe,
For grief had seiz'd his early age,
And tears would often flow.
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 habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove,
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?
Say, 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 what is love? an empty 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.
Surpriz'd he sees new beauties rise
Expanding 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 thing forlorn, she cried,
Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.
Forgive, and let thy pious care
An heart's distress allay,
That seeks repose, but finds despair
Companion of the way.
My father liv'd, of high degree
Remote beside the Tyne,
And as he had but only me,
Whate'er he had was mine.
To win me from his tender arms
Unnumber'd suitors came,
Their chief pretence my flatter'd charms,
My wealth perhaps their aim.
Each hour the mercenary crowd
With glitt'ring proffers strove;
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
Who offer'd only love.
In humble simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
And these were all to me.
Whene'er he spoke amidst the train,
How would my heart attend!
And still delighted even to pain,
How sigh for such a friend!
And when a little rest I sought
In sleep's refreshing arms,
How have I mended what he taught,
And lent him fancied charms!
Yet still (and woe betide the hour)
I spurn'd him from my side,
And still with ill dissembled power,
Repaid his love with pride.
'Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to deplore,
And sought a solitude forlorn,
And ne'er was heard of more.
Then since he perish'd by my fault,
This pilgrimage I pay,
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
And there in shelt'ring thickets hid,
I'll linger till I die;
'Twas thus for me my lover did,
And so for him will I.
Thou shalt not thus, the hermit cried,
And clasp'd her to his breast.
Th' astonish'd fair-one turn'd to chide,
'Twas EDWIN's self that prest.
For now no longer could he hide
What first to hide he strove,
His looks resume their youthful pride,
And flush with honest love.
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,
Our love shall still be new,
And the last sigh that rends thy heart
Shall break thy EDWIN's too.
Here amidst sylvan bow'rs we'll rove,
From lawn to woodland stray,
Blest as the songsters of the grove,
And innocent as they.
To all that want, and all that wail,
Our pity shall be given,
And when this life of love shall fail,
We'll love it again in heaven.
THE END.