" 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 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.

Surprized! he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colors o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms;

The lovely stranger stands confess'd
A maid in all her charms.

" And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,
"A wretch forlorn," she cried :

"Whose feet unhallow'd 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 lived 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;

" Who praised me for imputed charms,

" And felt or feign'd a flame.

" Each hour the mercenary crowd,

" With richest presents 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; " Wisdom and worth were all he had, "But these were all to me.

The blossom opening to the day, "The dews of heaven refined, "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 is 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 press'd.

" Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

"My charmer, turn to see " Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, "Restored to love and thee.

" Thus let me hold thee to my heart, " And every 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 heart. " Shall break thy Edwin's too.”

HYMN ON SOLITUDE.

BY JAMES THOMSON.

HAIL, mildly pleasing Solitude,

Companion of the wise and good:
But from whose holy piercing eye
The herd of fools and villains fly.

Oh! how I love with thee to walk,
And listen to thy whisper'd talk,
Which innocence and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.

A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
And still in every shape you please.
Now, wrapp'd in some mysterious dream,
A lone philosopher you seem;
Now quick froın hill to vale you fly,
And now you sweep the vaulted sky.
A shepherd next you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten strain,
A lover now, with all the grace
Of that sweet passion in your face :
Then, calm'd to friendship, you assume
The gentle-looking Hartford's bloom,
As, with her Musidora, she
(Her Musidora fond of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rivall'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn,
Just as the dew-bent rose is born;

And while meridian fervors beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landscape swims away,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
And that best hour of musing thine.

Descending angels bless thy train,
The virtues of the sage and swain;
Plain innocence, in white array'd,
Before thee lifts her fearless head:
Religion's beams around thee shine,
And cheer thy glooms with light divine:
About thee sports sweet Liberty;
And rapt Urania sings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell! And in thy deep recesses dwell. Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill, When meditation has her fill, I just may cast my careless eyes Where London's spiry turrets rise; Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain, Then shield me in the woods again.