« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
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 blest, and die.
The softest blush that nature spreads
Gave colour to her cheek ;
When May's sweet mornings break,
Nor let the pride of great ones fcorn
This charmer of the plains;
Long had she fir'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair ; And tho' by all a wonder own’d,
Yet knew not she was fair.
Till EDWIN came, the pride of fwains,
A foul that knew no art,
Shone forth the feeling heart.
A mutual flame was quickly caught,
Was quickly too reveal'd;
Which virtue keeps conceal'd.
What happy hours of heartfelt bliss,
Did love on both bestow !
Where fortune proves a foe.
His fifter, who like envy form’d,
Like her in mischief joy'd,
Each darker art employ’d.
The father too, a sordid man,
Who love nor pity knew, Was all unfeeling as the rock From whence his riches
Long had he seen their mutual flame,
And seen it long unmoy'd; Then with a father's frown at last,
He sternly disapprov'd.
In Edwin's gentle heart a war
Of differing paflions ftrove; His heart which durft not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.
Deny'd her sight, he oft behind
The spreading hawthorn crept, To snatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walk'd and wept.
Oft too in Stanemore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade, In fighs to pour his foften'd soul
The midnight mourner stray'd.
His cheeks, where love 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 sorrows shed.
"Tis past, he cry'd, but, if your souls
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 ; Fast falling o'er the primrose pale
So morning dews appear.
But oh! his fifer's jealous care
(A cruel fifter she !) Forbad what Emma came to say
My EDWIN, live for me.
Now homeward as she hopeless went,
The church-yard path along, The blaft blew cold, the dark owl scream'd,
Her lover's fun’ral song,
Amid the falling gloom of night,
Her startling fancy found
His groan in every found.
Alone, appallid, thus had she pass'd
The visionary vale,
Sad sounding in the gale.
Just then she reach'd, with trembling steps,
Her aged mother's door ;
That angel face no more.
I feel, I feel this breaking heart
Beat high against my fide :
She shiver’d, sigh’d, and died.