Edwin and Angelina: A Ballad

‘TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,And guide my lonely way,To where yon taper cheers the valeWith 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 fliesTo lure thee to thy doom.

‘Here to the houseless child of wantMy door is open still;And though my portion is but scant,I give it with good will.

‘Then turn to-night, and freely shareWhate’er my cell bestows;My rushy couch, and frugal fare,My blessing and repose.

‘No flocks that range the valley freeTo slaughter I condemn:Taught by that power that pities me,I learn to pity them.

‘But from the mountain’s grassy sideA guiltless feast I bring;A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,And water from the spring.

‘Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forgo;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 obscureThe lonely mansion lay;A refuge to the neighbouring poorAnd strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatchRequir’d a master’s care;The wicket, opening with a latch,Receiv’d the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retireTo take their evening rest,The hermit trimm’d his little fire,And cheer’d his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,And gaily press’d, and smil’d;And, skill’d in legendary lore,The lingering hours beguil’d.

Around in sympathetic mirthIts tricks the kitten tries;The cricket chirrups in the hearth;The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impartTo soothe the stranger’s woe;For grief was heavy at his heart,And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied,With answ’ring care oppress’d;‘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 bringsAre 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 modern fair one’s jest:On earth unseen, or only foundTo warm the turtle’s nest.

‘For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,And spurn the sex,’ he said:But, while he spoke, a rising blushHis love-lorn guest betray’d.

Surpris’d, he sees new beauties rise,Swift mantling 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 confess’dA maid in all her charms.

‘And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,A wretch forlorn,’ she cried;‘Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrudeWhere heaven and you reside.

‘But let a maid thy pity share,Whom love has taught to stray;Who seeks for rest, but finds despairCompanion of her way.

‘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 armsUnnumber’d suitors came;Who prais’d me for imputed charms,And felt or feign’d a flame.

Each hour a mercenary crowdWith richest proffers strove:Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d,But never talk’d of love.

‘In humble, simplest habit clad,No wealth nor power had he;Wisdom and worth were all he had,But these were all to me.

‘And when beside me in the daleHe caroll’d lays of love;His breath lent fragrance to the gale,And music to the grove.

‘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 shine;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,And so for him will I.’

‘Forbid it, heaven!’ 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 seeThy 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,My life—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 heartShall break thy Edwin’s too.’