La più depressa arena: un picciol ramo
Svelto dal vento a un arboscel vicino

Era impaccio bastante al tuo cammino.
Ed or, cangiato in fiume,

Gonfio d'acque, e di spume,

Strepitoso rivolgi arbori, e sassi,

Sdegni le sponde, e non m' ascolti, e passi. Ma tornerai fra poco,

Povero ruscelletto,

Del polveroso letto
Fra' sassi a mormorar,
Ti varcherò per gioco;
Disturberò quell'onde ;
Torbido fra le sponde

Farò che vadi al mar.

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 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 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 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, pilgrin, 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 neighb'ring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care;

The wicket, op'ning with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.

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

And spread his vegetable store,.
And gaily press'd, 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 answering care opprest:

And, « Whence, unhappy youth, » he cry'd, The sorrows of thy breast?

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 haughty 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 stranger stands confest

A maid in all her charms.