Or has the cruel hand of fate Bereft thee of thy darling young? In all the pride of youthful charms, A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms! By every art that science could devise; And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skiesThen our comforts be the same, Afevering's peaceful hour, Foshan the noisy paths of wealth and fame, And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bower. But why, alas! to thee complain! Soon shalt THOU cease to mourn thy lot severe, But O for ME in vain may seasons roll, Tell me, thou syren Hope, deceiver, say, O what delusion did thy tongue employ ! "That EMMA's fatal pledge of love, "Her last bequest-with all a mother's care, "The bitterness of sorrow should remove, "Soften the horrors of despair, "And chear a heart long lost to joy?" How oft, when fondling in mine arms, Gazing enraptured on its angel-face, My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace, Till every aching sense was sweetly pain'd, utter more. "Just Heaven," I cry'd-with recent hopes elate, "Yet I will live-will live, thoug EhмMA'S dead "So long bow'd down beneath the storms of Fate, "Yet will I raise my woe-dejected head! 66 My little EMMA, now my ALL, "Will want a father's care, "Her looks, her wants my rash resolves recall, "Complaint, the only bliss my soul can know, "From me my child shall learn the mournful strain, "And prattle tales of woe; "And O in that auspicious hour, "When Fate resigns her persecuting power, "With duteous zeal her hand shall close, "No more to weep-my sorrow streaming eyes, "When death gives misery repose, "And opes a glorious passage to the skies." Vain thought! it must not be-She too is dead- And vengeance can no more.— Crush'd by misfortune-blasted by disease- Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath, And dry up every tear: But ah from my affections far removed! Yet while this weary life shall last, While yet my tongue can form the impassion'd strain, In piteous accents shall the Muse complain, The tale of misery to impart ; From other's eyes bid artless sorrows flow, Even HE, Shall deign my love-lorn tale to hear, Shall catch the soft contagion of my song, And pay the pensive Muse the tribute of a tear. * Lord Lyttleton. B 3 GEORGE CANNING. 1771. An Irish Gentleman, father to the Right Honourable George Canning. Lord Epistle from Lord William Russel to William LOST to the world, to-morrow doom'd to die, sound, Midst bolts and bars the active soul is free, And flies, unfetter'd, CAVENDISH, to thee. |