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 fire-side. It is true his labour more than requited his entertainment; for he wrought among us with vigour, and either in the meadow or at the hayrick 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 manner, 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 upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell seemed to give cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction two blackbirds answered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar redbreast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. " never sit thus," says Sophia, "but I think of the two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who were struck dead in each other's arms under a barley mow. There is something so pathetic in the description that I have read it an hundred times with new rapture."— "In my opinion," cried my son, "the finest strokes in that description are much below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet understands the use of contrast better, and upon that figure artfully managed all strength in thee pathetic depends."—"It is remarkable," cried Mr Burchell, "that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all their lines with epithet. Mel of little genius found them most easily imitated in their defects, and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination or luxuriant images without plot or connection; a string or epithets that improve the sound without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I have made this remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad which, whatever be its other defects, is I think at least free from those I have mentioned."
"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 phantom only 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 supplied,
And water from the spring.
"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;|
For earthborn 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 grateful stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
|Far shelter'd in a glade obscure|
The modest 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 door just opening with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.
And now when worldly crowds retire|
To revels or to rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store,|
And gayly prest, 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.
His rising cares the hermit spied,|
With answering care opprest:
"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
"The sorrows of thy breast?
|But nothing could a charm impart|
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
"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,
But leaves the wretch to weep?
"And love is still an emptier sound,|
The haughty 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
The bashful guest betray'd.
|He sees unnumber'd beauties rise,|
Expanding to the view;
Like clouds that deck the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
Her looks, her lips, her panting 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 unhallowed 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; by
And all his wealth was mark'd as mines
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 morn the gay phantastic 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;
A constant heart was all he had,
But that was all to me.
"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 shrine;
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,
Anna so for him will I."
"Thou shalt not thus," the hermit cried,|
And clasp'd her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide,
'Twas 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,
O thou—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 entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters; and I could perceive that Sophia in the fright had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell's arms for protection. The gentleman came up and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he was ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sat down by my youngest daughter, and, sportsman like, offered her what he had killed that morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look from her mother soon induced her to correct the mistake and accept his present, though with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a whisper, observing that Sophy had made a conquest of the chaplain as well as her sister had of the Squire. I suspected, however, with more probability, that her affections were placed upon a different object. The chaplain's errand was to inform us that Mr. Thornhill had provided music and refreshments, and intended that night giving the young ladies a ball by moonlight on the grass-plot before our door. "Nor can I deny," continued he, "but I have an interest in being first to deliver this message, as I expect for my reward to be honoured with Miss Sophy's hand as a partner." To this my girl replied that she should have no objection, if she could do it with honour. "But here," continued she, "is a gentleman," looking at Mr. Burchell, "who has been my companion in the task for the day, and l it is fit he should share in its amusements." Mr. Burchell returned her a compliment for her intentions, but resigned her up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that l night five miles, being invited to an harvest supper. His l refusal appeared to me a little extraordinary, nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest could l thus prefer a middle-aged man of broken fortune to a sprightly young fellow of twenty-two. But as men are most capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest judgments upon us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished with different abilities, adapted for mutual inspection.
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