Again the accents faulter on my tongue ;

Again to tear the conscious tear succeeds; From sharp reflection is the dagger sprung, And Nature, wounded to the centre, bleeds.

Ye bitter skies! upon the tale descend―

Ye blasts, though rude your visits, lend an earAround, ye gentler oaks, your branches bend, And, as ye listen, drop an icy tear.

'Twas when the step with conscious pleasure roves, Where round the shades the circling woodbines

throng;

When Flora wantons o'er th' enamel'd groves,

And feather'd choirs indulge the amorous song;

Inspir'd by duteous love, I fondly stray'd,
Two milk-white doves officious to ensnare ;
Beneath a silent thicket as they play'd,
A grateful present for my softer fair.

But, ah! in smiles no more they met my sight,
Their ruffled heads lay gasping on the ground:
Where (my dire emblem) a rapacious Kite [around.
Tore their soft limbs, and strew'd their plumes

The tear of pity stole into my eye;

While ruder passions in their turn succeed: Forbid the victims unreveng'd to die,

And doom the author of their wrongs to bleed.

With hasty step, enrag'd, I homewards ran,

107

(Curse on my speed!) th' unerring tube I brought: That fatal hour my date of woe began,

Too sharp to tell-too horrible for thought—

Disast'rous deed!-irrevocable ill

How shall I tell the anguish of my Fate ! Teach me, remorseless monsters, not to feel, Instruct me, fiends and furies, to relate!

Wrathful behind the guilty shade I stole,

I rais'd the tube-the clamorous woods resoundToo late I saw the idol of my soul,

Struck by my aim, fall shrieking to the ground!

No other bliss her soul allow'd but me;
(Hapless the pair that thus indulgent prove)
She sought concealment from a shady tree,
In amorous silence to observe her love.

I ran—but O! too soon I found it true!— [apace→→→
From her stain'd breast life's crimson stream'd
From her wan eyes the sparkling lustres flew—
The short-liv'd roses faded from her face!

Gods!-could I bear that fond reproachful look,
That strove her peerless innocence to plead !—
But partial death awhile her tongue forsook,
To save a wretch that doom'd himself to bleed.

While I distracted press'd her in my arms,

And fondly strove t'imbibe her latest breath; "O spare, rash love, she cry'd, thy fatal charms, Nor seek cold shelter in the arms of death.

"Content beneath thy erring hand I die.

Our fates grew envious of a bliss so true; Then urge not thy distress when low I lie,

But in this breath receive my last adieu !"

No more she spake, but droop'd her lily head!
In death she sicken’d—breathless-haggard-pale—
While all my inmost soul with horror bled,

And ask'd kind vengeance from the passing gale.

Where slept your bolts, ye lingering lightnings, say?
Why riv'd ye not this self-condemned breast?

Or why, too passive Earth, didst thou delay,
To stretch thy jaws, and crush me into rest?.

Low in the dust the beauteous corse I plac'd,
Bedew'd and soft with many a falling tear;
With sable yew the rising turf I grac'd,

And bade the cypress mourn in silence near.

Oft as bright morn's all-searching eye returns,
Full to my view the fatal spot is brought;
Through sleepless night my haunted spirit mourns,
No gloom can hide me from distracting thought.

When, spotless victim, shall my form decay?

This guilty load, say, when shall I resign ? When shall my spirit wing her cheerless way, And my cold corse lie treasur'd up with thine?

ELEGY XVIII.

ON THE

DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

BY SIR JAMES MARRIOT.

YES, it is past; the fatal stroke is given.
Our pious sorrows own the hand of heaven.
How short our joys! incumber'd life how vain!
Still vex'd with evil's never-ceasing train;
While roll the hours which lead each fleeting year,
Each asks a sigh, and each demands a tear.
O'er pleasing scenes the mind with rapture roves,
Grasps in idea all its hopes or loves :

Snatch'd from its view the pleasing scenes decay,
And the fair vision melts in shades away.

Of youth, of beauty, and of wit the boast, O lov'd for ever, and too early lost,

Sweet maid, for thee now mingling with the dead, Her sacred griefs the tuneful Muse shall shed; The soft remembrance of thy charms to save She plants with all her bays thy hallow'd grave.