'Tis she does the virgins excel, No beauty with her can compare, Love's graces all round her do dwell, She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray? Oh! tell me at noon where they feed: Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed. EDWIN AND EMMA. [MALLET.] FAR in the windings of a vale, The safe retreat of health and An humble cottage stood. peace, There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair Whose only wish on earth was now To see her blest, and die. The softest blush that nature spreads Such orient colour smiles thro' heav'n Nor let the pride of great ones scorn That sun which bids their diamond blaze, To deck our lily deigns. Long had she fir'd each youth with love, Each maiden with despair; And tho' by all a wonder own'd, Till Edwin came, the pride of swains, And from whose eyes serenely mild, A mutual flame was quickly caught, What happy hours of heartfelt bliss, But bliss too mighty long to last, His sister, who like envy form'd, To work them harm, with wicked skill The father too, a sordid man, Who love nor pity knew, Was all unfeeling as the rock From whence his riches grew. Long had he seen their mutual flame, In Edwin's gentle heart a war Denied her sight, he oft behind Oft too in Stanemore's wintry waste, His cheeks, where love with beauty glow'd, A deadly pale o'ercast ; So fades the fresh rose in its prime, Before the northern blast. The parents now, with late remorse, And wearied heav'n with fruitless pray'rs, 'Tis past, he cried, but, if your souls She came; his cold hand softly touch'd, So morning dews appear. But oh! his sister's jealous care (A cruel sister she !) Forbad what Emma came to say, My Edwin, live for me. Now homeward as she hopeless went, The church-yard path along, The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd Her lover's fun'ral song. Amid the falling gloom of night, Alone, appall'd, thus had she pass'd The visionary vale, When lo! the death-bell smote her ear, Just then she reach'd with trembling steps, He's gone, she cried, and I shall see I feel, I feel this breaking heart Beat high against my side: From her white arm down sunk her head, She shiver'd, sigh'd, and died. THE [SHENSTONE.] HE western sky was purpled o'er And flocks reviving felt no more When from a hazel's artless bower |