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, 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.

D

"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 Pow'r 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 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 the neighb'ring 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 ev'ning rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And chcer'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.

Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling fagot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart
To sooth the stranger's wo;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answ'ring care opprest:
"L 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.