A BALLAD
By
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
"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 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 faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.
"Here to the houselesss 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.
