« ПретходнаНастави »
AR in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a sheltering wood, The safe retreat of Health and Peace,
An humble cottage stood.
There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,
Beneath a mother's eye ;
To see her bleft, and die.
The loftest blush that nature spreads
Gave colour to her cheek :
When May's sweet mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
This charmer of the plains :
To paint our lilly deigns.
Long had the fill'd each yonth with love,
Each maiden with despair;
Yet knew not Nie was fair.
Till Edwin came, the pride of fwains,
A soul that knew no art;
Shone forth the feeling heart.
A mutual flame was quickly caught;
Was quickly too reveald :
That virtue keeps conceal'd.
What happy hours of home-felt bliss
Did love on both bestow !
Where fortune proves a foe.
His fifter, 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 fordid man,
Who love nor pity knew, Was all-unfeeling as the clod,
From whence his riches grew.
Long had he seen their secret flame,
And seen it long unmov'd: Then with a father's frown at laft
Had sternly disapprov'd.
In Edwin's gentle heart, a war
Of different paffions (trove :
Yet could not cease to love.
Deny'd her fight, he oft behind
The spreading hawthorn crept, To snatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walk'd and wept.
Oft too on Stanemore's wintry wade,
Beneath the moonlight-shade, In fighs to pour his soften'd soul,
The midnight-mourner stray'd.
His check, where health with beauty glow'd,
A deadly pale o'ercast :
Before the northern blast.
The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed ;
And fruitless sorrow shed.
"Tis paft! he cry'd but if your soula
Sweet mercy yet can move,
What they must ever love!
She came; his cold hand softly touch'd,
And bath'd with many a tear :
So morning-dews appear.
But oh! his fifter's jealous care
A cruel fifter she !
“ My Edwin live for me."
Now homeward as she hopeless wept
The church-yard path along,
Her lover's funeral song.
Amid the falling gloom of night,
Her startling fancy found
groan in every sound,
Alone, appald, thus had me paft
The visionary valeWhen lo! the death-bell fmote her ear,
Sad-founding in the gale!
Just then she reach'd, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door
That angel-face no more !
I feel, I feel this breaking heart
Beat high againft my fide From her white arm down funk her head;
She shivering figh'd, and died.
'URN, gentle hermit of the dale,
« And guide iny lonely way, " To where yon taper cheers the vale,
“ With hofpitable ray.
" For here forlorn and loft I tread,
“ With fainting iteps and flow; " Where wilds immeasurably spread,
“ Seem lengthening as I go."
« Forbear my son," the hermit cries,
“ To tempt the dang'rous gloom ; • For yonder faithleso phantom fijes " To lure thee to thy doom.