tween 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 Shakspeare 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. THE HERMIT. TURN, gentle hermit of the dale, 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 No flocks that range the valley free Taught by that Power that pities me, • 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, Soft as the dew from heaven descends, Far in a wilderness obscure A refuge to the neighbouring poor, No stores beneath its humble thatch And now, when busy crowds retire But nothing could a charm impart His rising cares the hermit spied, • From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove; Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Alas! the joys that fortune brings And those who prize the paltry things And what is friendship but a name, For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, But, while he spoke, a rising blush His lovelorn guest betray'd. Surprised he sees new beauties rise, The bashful look, the rising breast, The lovely stranger stands confess'd And ah! forgive a stranger rude, Whom love has taught to stray; My father lived beside the Tyne, And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, To win me from his tender arms • Each hour a mercenary crowd In humble, simplest habit clad, The blossom opening to the day, |