A lovely babe that should have liv'd to bless, By every art that Science could devise, And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skies. Then O our comforts be the same, At evening's peaceful hour, To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame, And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bower. But why, alas! to thee complain! To thee-unconscious of my pain! Soon shalt THOU cease to mourn thy lot severe, The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring love. But O for ME in vain may seasons roll, Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears, Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, say, Full three long, lingering years have roll'd away, O what delusion did thy tongue employ ! "That EMMA's fatal pledge of love, Her last bequest-with all a mother's care, The bitterness of sorrow should remove, Soften the horrors of despair, And chear a heart long lost to joy !" My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace, Till every aching sense was sweetly pain'd, And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could utter more. "Just Heaven," I cry'd—with recent hopes elate, "Yet I will live-will live, though EMMA's deadSo long bow'd down beneath the storms of Fate, Yet will I raise my woe-dejected head! My little EMMA, now my ALL, Will want a father's care, Her looks, her wants, my rash resolves recall, And oft together we'll complain, Complaint, the only bliss my soul can know, From me my child shall learn the mournful strain, And prattle tales of woe. And O in that auspicious hour, When Fate resigns her persecuting power, With duteous zeal her hand shall close, No more to weep-my sorrow-streaming eyes, And opes a glorious passage to the skies.' My hopes for ever-ever fled And vengeance can no more— Crush'd by misfortune-blasted by disease- Or sooth the anguish of an aching heart! Perhaps, obsequious to my will, But ah! from my affections far remov'd! Yet while this weary life shall last, While yet my tongue can form th' impassion'd strain, In piteous accents shall the Muse complain, And dwell with fond delay on blessings past: For O how grateful to a wounded heart, The tale of misery to impart ! From other's eyes bid artless sorrows flow, And raise esteem upon the base of woe! Even HE, the noblest of the tuneful throng, Shall deign my love-lorn tale to hear, Shall catch the soft contagion of my song, And pay my pensive Muse the tribute of a tear. WHEN black-brow'd Night her dusky mantle spread, |