⚫ Our joys as winged dreams do fly,
Why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is past.

O say not so, thou holy friar;
I pray thee, say not so:

For since my true love died for me,
'Tis meet my tears should flow.

And will he ne'er come again?
Will he ne'er come again?

Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave,
For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rose,
The com❜liest youth was he :

But he is dead, and laid in his grave:
Alas! and woe is me!

Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever:
One foot on sea, and one on land,
To one thing constant never.

Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy ;

For young men ever were fickle found,

Since summer trees were leafy.

Now say not so, thou holy friar,
I pray thee say not so ;

My love he had the truest heart :

O he was ever true!

And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth,
And didst thou die for me?

Then farewell home; for, evermore

A pilgrim I will be.

But first upon my true love's grave

My weary limbs I'll lay,

And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf,

That wraps his breathless clay.

Yet stay, fair lady; rest awhile

Beneath this cloister wall:

See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, And drizzly rain doth fall.

O stay me not, thou holy friar;

Ι

O stay me not, I pray;

No drizzly rain that falls on me,
Can wash my fault away.

Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see beneath this gown of

Thy own true love ́appears.

gray

Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love

These holy weeds I sought: And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought.

But haply for my year of grace*
Is not yet pass'd away,

Might I still hope to win thy love,
No longer would I stay.

Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart;

For since I have found thee, lovely youth,
We never more will part.

THE HERMIT.

[By Goldsmith.]

TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale,
With hospitable ray.

* The year of probation, or noviciate.

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 earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little wrong.

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 neighbouring poor,
And stranger 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 revels or to rest,

The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest :

And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily prest, and smil❜d;
And skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguil'd.