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'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. x

EDWIN AND EMMA.

[MALLET.]

FAR
A r 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,
Whose only wish on earth was now

To see her blest, and die.

The softest blush that nature spreads

1 Gave colour to her cheek; Such orient colour smiles thro' heav'n

When May's sweet mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn

This charmer of the plains; 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,

Yet knew not she was fair.

Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,

A soul that knew no art,
And from whose eyes serenely mild,

Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught,

Was quickly too reveal'd;
For neither bosom lodg’d a wish,

Which virtue keeps conceal’d.

What happy hours of heartfelt bliss,

Did love on both bestow!
But bliss too mighty long to last,

Where fortune proves a foe.

His sister, who like envy form’d,

Like her in mischief joy'd,
To work them harm, with wicked skill

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 grew.

Long had he seen their mutual flame,

And seen it long unmov'd; Then with a father's frown at last,

He sternly disapprov'd.

In Edwin's gentle heart a war

Of differing passions strove ;
His heart, which durst not disobey,

Yet could not cease to love.

. .

Denied 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 sighs to pour his soften’d soul

The midnight mourner stray'd.

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,

Hung o'er his dying bed,
And wearied heav'n with fruitless pray’rs,

And fruitless sorrows shed.

'Tis past, he cried, but, if your souls

Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold

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 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,

Her startling fancy found
In every bush his hovering shade,

His groan in every sound.

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Alone, appallid, thus had she pass'd

The visionary vale,
When lo! the death-bell smote her ear,

Sad sounding in the gale.

Just then she reach'd with trembling steps,

Her aged mother's door;
He's

gone, she cried, and I shall see
That angel face no more.

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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.

[SHENSTONE.]

THE

H E western sky was purpled o'er,
With every pleasing ray,
And flocks reviving felt no more

The sultry heat of day;

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When from a hazel's artless bower

Soft warbled Strephon's tongue;
He blest the scene, he blest the hour,

While Nancy's praise he sung.

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