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 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 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 strangers 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 take their evening rest, The hermit trimm’d his little fire, And cheer’d his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store, And gayly prest, and smil’d; And skill’d in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguil’d.