CHAPTER VIII. 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 my fire-side. 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 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 gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar red-breast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. "I 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. There is something so pathetic in the description, that I have read it a 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 the 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. Men 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 of luxuriant images, without plot or connection; a string of 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 the 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." A BALLAD. "TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, "For here forlorn and lost I tread, "Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant, "Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows; My rushy couch and frugal fare, "No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn; 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, "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego, Soft as the dew from Heaven descends, His gentle accents fell, The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure No stores beneath its humble thatch And now, when busy crowds retire And spread his vegetable store, The ling'ring hours beguil❜d. Around in sympathetic mirth But nothing could a charm impart His rising cares the Hermit spied, "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, "The sorrows of thy breast? "From better habitations spurn'd, "Alas! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, "And what is friendship but a name, A shade that follows wealth or fame, "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, Surpris'd, he sees new beauties rise, The bashful look, the rising breast, "And ah! forgive a stranger rude, "But let a maid thy pity share, "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. “To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came; "Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love |