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Foe to the futile manners of the proud,

He chose an humble Virgin for his own;
A mind with Nature's fairest gifts endow'd:
And pure as vernal blossoms newly blown;

Her hand she gave, and with it gave her heart,
Her fond, fond faithful sympathizing breast;
Free without folly, prudent without art;

With wit accomplish'd, and with virtue blest.

Swift pass the hours; alas, to pass no more! Flown like the light clouds of a summer's day! One beauteous pledge the beauteous consort bore, The fatal gift forbade the giver's stay.

Ere twice the sun perform'd his annual round,
In one sad spot where kindred ashes lie,

O'er Wife, and Child, and Parents clos'd the ground; The final home of man ordain'd to die.

O cease at length, obtrusive Mem❜ry! cease,
Nor in my view the wretched hours retain
That saw disease on HER dear life increase,
And Med'cine's lenient arts essay'd in vain.

O the dread scene! (in misery how sublime !)
Of love's vain prayers to stay her fleeting breath!
Suspense that restless watch'd the flight of Time,

And helpless dumb Despair, awaiting Death.

O the dread scene !-'Tis agony to tell,
How o'er the couch of pain declin'd my head;
And took from dying lips the long farewell,

The last, last parting, ere her spirits fled.

Restore her, Heaven, as from the grave retrieveIn each calm moment all things else resign'd, Her looks, her language, show how hard to leave The lov'd companion she must leave behind.

Restore her, Heaven! for once in mercy spare—

Thus Love's vain prayer in anguish interpos'd; And from Suspence gave place to dumb despair, And o'er the past, Death's sable curtain clos'd.

In silence clos'd-My thoughts rov'd frantic round, No hope, no wish, beneath the sun remain'd; Earth, air, and skies, one dismal prospect frown'd; One pale, dead, dreary blank with horror stain'd.

O lovely flower, too fair for this rude clime!
O lovely morn, too prodigal of light!
O transient beauties, blasted in their prime !
O transient glories, sunk in sudden night!

Sweet Excellence! by all who knew thee mourn'd: Where is that blooming form my soul admir'd ;

With native artless modesty adorn'd:

With pity, meekness, charity, inspir'd?

The face with rapture view'd, I view no more, The voice with rapture heard, no more I hear: Yet the lov'd features Mem'ry's eyes explore;

Yet the lov'd accents fall on Mem'ry's ear.

Ah sad, sad change! the source of daily pain
That sense of loss ineffable renews:

While my rack'd bosom heaves the sigh in vain,
While my pale cheek the tear in vain bedews.

While o'er the grave that holds the dear remains, The mould'ring veil her spirit left below; Fond Fancy dwells, and pours funereal strains, The soul-dissolving melody of woe.

Nor mine alone to bear this mournful doom,
Nor she alone the tear of Song obtains ;
The Muse of BLAGDON, o'er CONSTANTIA's tomb,
In all the eloquence of grief complains.

My friend's fair hope, like mine so lately gain'd,
His heart like mine, in its true partner blest ;
Both from one cause the same distress sustain'd,
The same sad hours beheld us both distress'd.

O Human Life! how mutable, how vain!
How thy wide sorrows circumscribe thy joy
A sunny island in a stormy main,

A spot of azure in a cloudy sky.

Yet love divine! since man, infatuate man,

Rests in thy works, too negligent of thee, Lays for himself on earth his little plan; Dreads not, or distant views mortality.

'Tis but to wake to nobler thought the soul, To urge us ling'ring from earth's fav'rite plain, To Virtue's path our vague steps to control,

Affliction frowning comes, thy minister of pain!

ELEGY XVII.

AMINTA.

BY THE REV. MR. GERRARD.

AN o'ergrown wood my wandering steps invade,
With surface mantled in untrodden snow;
Dire haunt, for none but savage monsters made,
Where frosts descend, and howling tempests blow.

Here, from the search of busy mortals stray'd,
My woe-worn soul shall hug her galling chain :
For sure, no forest boasts too deep a shade,
No haunt too wild for misery to remain.

O my Aminta ! dear distracting name !
Late all my comfort, all my fond delight;
Still writhes my soul beneath its torturing flame,
Still thy pale image fills my aching sight!

When shall vain memory slumber o'er her woes?
When to oblivion be her tale resign'd?
When shall this fatal form in death repose,
Like thine, fair victim, to the dust consign'd?

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