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What happy hours of home-felt bliss

Did love on both beftow!
But bliss too mighty long to last,

Where fortune proves a foe.

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His filter, who, like Envy form’d,

Like her in mischief joy'd,
To work them harm, with wicked skill,

Each darker art employ'd.

The father too, a sordid man,

Who love nor pity knew, Was all-unfeeling as the clod,

From whence his riches grew.).

Long had he seen their secret fame,

And seen it long unmov'd: Then with a father's frown at last

Had sternly disapprov'd.

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Deny'd her fight, he oft behind

The spreading hawthorn crept, To snatch a glance, to mark the spot

Where Enma walk'd and wept.

Oft too on Stanemore's wintry wafte,

Beneath the moonlight-shade, In fighs to pour his foften'a foul,

The midnight-mourner stray'd.

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His check, where health with beauty glow'd,

A deadly pale o'ercast :
So fades the fresh rose in its prime,

Before the northern blaft.

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The parents now, with late remorse,

Hung o'er his dying bed ;
And weary'd heaven with fruitless vows,

And fruitless forrow shed.

'Tis paft ! he cry'd--but if your fouls

Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold,
What they must ever love!

She came ; his cold hand softly touch'd,

And bath'd with many a tear : Faft-falling o'er the primrose pale,

So morning-dews appear.

But oh! his fifter's jealous care

A cruel fifter she !
Forbade what Emma came to say ;

My Edwin live for me.”

Now homeward as the hopeless wept
The church-yard patb along,
The blaft blew cold,' the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found In

every bush his hovering shade, His groan in every found.

Alone, appal'd, thus had the past

The visionary vale-
When lo! tbe death-belt fmote her ear,

Sad-founding in the gale!

Just then she reach'd, with trembling step,

Her aged mother's door
He's gone! she cry'd; and I shall fee

That angel-face no more !

I feel, I feel this breaking heart

Beat high against my fide
From her white arm down funk her head;

She shivering figh'd, and died.

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" To where

TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,

“ And guide my lonely way,

yon taper cheers the vale, “ With hospitable ray.

For here forlorn and loft I tread, " With fainting steps and Now ; " Where wilds immeasurably spread, " Seem lengthening as I go.”

"Forbear my son,” the hermit cries,

" To tempt the dang'rous gloom ; “For yonder faithless phantom flies “ To lure thee to thy doom.

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66 Here to the houseless child of want,

My door is open “And tho'my portion is but fcant,

“ 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 fidc

“ A guiltleis feast I bring ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supply'd,

o And water from the spring.

6. Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

6. For earth-born cares are wrong: “ Man wants but little here below,

6. Nor wants that little long."

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Soft as the dew from heav'n descends,

His gentle accents fell :
The modeft itranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely manfion lay ;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,

And Itranger's led altray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a maiter's care ;
The wicket op'ning with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.

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