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 this 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,
And guide my lonely way,
To where you taper cheers the vale
With 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 flies
To lure thee to thy doom.

Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still;

And though 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 nie,
I learn to pity them.

But from the mountain's grassy side, A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd,
And water from the spring.

Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.'

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,
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket opening with a latch,
Receiv'd the barmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire,
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
Aud cheer'd his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily prest, and smil'd;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The ling'ring hours beguil'd.

Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.

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

His rising cares the hermit spy'd,
With auswering care opprest:
And whence, unhappy youth,' he cry'd,
The sorrows of thy breast?

From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?

'Or grief 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.

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 strauger stands confest
A maid, in all her charms!

And, Ah, forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn,' she cried;
Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where heav'n 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 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;
Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt or feign'd a flame.

Each hour a mercenary crowd

With 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.

The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heav'n 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 fain:

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 clasped her to his breast,
The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide,
'Twas Edwin's self that prest!

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.'

While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us; and, immediately after, a man