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I come, dear companion in grief!

Gay scenes and fond pleasures, adieu! I come, and we'll gather relief

From bofoms so chaste and so true.

Like you, I have mourn’d the long night,

And wept out the day in despair ; Like you, I have banish'd delight,

And bosom’d a friend in my care.

Ye meadows so lively t, farewell !

Your velvet still Allen shall tread; All deaf to the sound of that knell

Which tolls for his Ella when dead.

Your wish will, too sure, be obey'd ;

Nor Allen her lofs shall bemoan; Soon, foon shall poor Ella be laid

Where her heart shall be cold as your own.

Then twin'd in the arms of that fair,

Whose wealth has been Ella's fad fate; As together ye draw the free air,

And a thousand dear pleasures relate i

If chance, o'er my turf, as ye tread,

Ye dare to affect a fond sigh,
The primrose will shrink her pale head,
And I



+ In the MS. it appears “ lovely."
I Ferhaps it is, “ And the violet languish and die."

Ah! weep not, fond maid ! 'tis in vain;

Like the tears which you lend to the stream;
Tears are lost in that wat'ry plain,
your sighs are still loft



Scarce echo had gather'd the found,

But she plung’d from her grass-springing bed : The liquid stream parts, to the ground,

And the mirror clos'd over her head.

The fwains of the village, at eve,

Oft meet at the dark-spreading yew; There, wonder how man could deceive

A bosom so chaste and so true,

With garlands, of ev'ry flow'r,

(Which Ella herself shou'd have made,) They raise up a short-living bow'r;

And, fighing ! cry, “ Peace to her shade."

Then, hand-lock'd-in-hand, as they move

The green-platting hillock around; They talk of poor Ella, and love;

And freshen, with tears, the fair ground.

Nay, wish they had never been born,

Or liv'd, the fad moment to view ! When her Allen could thus be forsworn,

And his Ella could still be so true.






The poet after giving a short but just character

of the marquis; and describing the grief of his noble father the duke of Bedford, proceeds thus :

SEE where the object of his filial love,

His mother, loft in tears, laments his doom : Speak comfort to her soul:O! from the sacred fount, wbere Aow thy streams Of heav'nly consolation, O! one drop, To footh his hapless wife! Iharp forrow preys Upon her tender frame-Alas, the faints, She falls ! ftill grasping in her hand The picture of her lord-All gracious heav'n! Just are thy ways, and righteous thy decrees, But dark and intricate; else why this meed For tender faithful love ; this sad recurn For innocence and truth? Was it for this By virtue and the smiling graces led, (Fair types of long succeeding years of joy,) She twin'd the votive wreath at Hymnen's fhrine,


So soon to fade and die ?-Yet O! reflect,
Chaste partner of his life ! you ne'er deplor'd
His alienated heart: (disastrous state !
Condition worse chan deith!) the facred torch
Burnt to the last its unre:nitted fires !
The conscious thought of every duty paid,
That sweet reflection shall support thy mind.
This be thy comfort:-turn thine eyes awhile,
Nor with that lifeless picture feed thy woe ;
Turn yet thine eyes; fee how they court thy

Those infant pledges of connubial joy!
Dwell on their looks, and trace his image there :
And !)! since heav'n, in pity to thy loss,
For thee one future blessing has in store t,
Cherith that tender hope--hear reason's voice.
Hush'd be the storms that vex thy troubled breast,
And angels guard thee in the hour of pain,


A cottage, with a steeple nigh,

A little brook that bubbles by; A garden full of fruits and flowers, Of mossy beds and shady bowers ; An orchard richly stor’d with fruit That any lady's taste may



+ She was then with child,

Daisies o'er spread th' enameld ground,
Diffufing fragrance all around;
The tender trees and shrubs exhale,
Those sweets that blow with ev'ry gale;
The fertile lands and fruitful fields,
Enliv’ning all that nature yields ;
Without, you view this lovely frame,
Within, the scene is much the same.
Tho' some would call our cottage mean,
Few palaces are kept so clean.
For sumptuous fare we never look
When there's a Aitch


the hook.
Bleft with two lovely girls and boys,
Who part our care and share our joys,
We chearful pass the time away
In labour all the live long day;
With hearts quite open and sincere,
With no improper with or fear,
We study, aim, and wish to do
Just as we would be done unto ;
Thinking content a greater gain
Than pride with all her haughty train,
Or blaze and splendour of a court,
Where honour's often but a sport.
Contented, as we said before,
We neither ask or wish for more;
To wish for more were but a jest,
To providence we leave the rest.


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