What happy hours of home-felt blifs His fifter, who, like Envy form'd, To work them harm, with wicked skill, The father too, a fordid man, Long had he feen their secret flame, In Edwin's gentle heart, a war Deny'd her fight, he oft behind Oft too on Stanemore's wintry waste, His cheek, where health with beauty glow'd, So fades the fresh rofe in its prime, The parents now, with late remorfe, And weary'd heaven with fruitlefs vows, 'Tis paft! he cry'd-but if your fouls She came; his cold hand foftly touch'd, But oh! his fifter's jealous care A cruel fifter fhe! Forbade what Emma came to fay; "My Edwin live for me." Now homeward as the hopeless wept The blaft blew cold, the dark owl fcream'd Her lover's funeral fong. Amid the falling gloom of night, Her ftartling fancy found In every bush his hovering fhade, Alone, appal'd, thus had she past When lo! the death-bell fmote her ear, Juft then she reach'd, with trembling step, I feel, I feel this breaking heart From her white arm down funk her head; "TURN URN, gentle hermit of the dale, "To where yon taper cheers the vale, "For here forlorn and loft I tread, "Forbear my fon," the hermit cries, "To tempt the dang'rous gloom; "For yonder faithlefs phantom flies "To lure thee to thy doom. P "Here to the houseless child of want, My door is open still; "And tho' my portion is but fcant, "I give it with good will. "Then turn to-night, and freely share "No flocks that range the valley free, "To flaughter I condemn : "Taught by that power that pities me, "I learn to pity them: But from the mountain's graffy fide "A fcrip with herbs and fruits fupply'd, "And water from the spring. "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; "For earth-born cares are wrong: "Man wants but little here below, "Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from heav'n defcends, Far in a wilderness obfcure A refuge to the neighbouring poor, No ftores beneath its humble thatch The wicket op'ning with a latch, |