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Yet still the scene his soul beguiled,
And every spectre cast

A look, unutterably wild,

On EDMUND as they pass'd.

All on the ground entranced he lay;
At length the vision broke:
-When, lo!-a kiss, as cold as clay,
The slumbering youth awoke.

That moment through a rifted cloud,
The darting moon display'd,
Robed in a melancholy shroud,
The image of a maid.

Her dusky veil aside she drew,
And show'd a face most fair:

-66

My Love! my ELLA!" EDMUND flew, And clasp'd the yielding air.

"Ha! who art thou?" His cheek grew pale;

66

A well-known voice replied,

ELLA, the lily of the vale;
ELLA-thy destined bride."

To win his neck her airy arms
The pallid phantom spread;
Recoiling from her blasted charms,
The affrighted lover fled.

To shun the visionary maid,

His speed outstript the wind;

But, though unseen to move,—the shade
Was evermore behind.

SO DEATH'S unerring arrows glide,

Yet seem suspended still;

Nor pause, nor shrink, nor turn aside,
But smite, subdue, and kill.

O'er many a mountain, moor, and vale,
On that tremendous night,

The ghost of ELLA, wild and pale,
Pursued her lover's flight.

But when the dawn began to gleam,
Ere yet the morning shone,
She vanish'd like a nightmare-dream,
And EDMUND stood alone.

Three days, bewilder'd and forlorn,
He sought his home in vain ;
At length he hail'd the hoary thorn
That crown'd his native plain.

"T'was evening;-all the air was balm,

The heavens serenely clear; When the soft music of a psalm Came pensive o'er his ear.

Then sunk his heart;-a strange surmise Made all his blood run cold:

He flew, a funeral met his eyes:

-a death-bell toll'd.

He paused,

"'Tis she! 'tis she!"-He bursts away;

And bending o'er the spot Where all that once was ELLA lay,

He all beside forgot.

A maniac now, in dumb despair,
With love-bewilder'd mien,

He wanders, weeps, and watches there,
Among the hillocks green.

And every Eve of pale St. MARK,
As village hinds relate,

He walks with ELLA in the dark,
And reads the rolls of Fate.

HANNAH.

AT fond sixteen my roving heart

Was pierced by Love's delightful dart : Keen transport throbb'd through every vein, -I never felt so sweet a pain!

Where circling woods embower'd the glade,
I met the dear romantic maid:

I stole her hand,—it shrunk,—but no;
I would not let my captive go.

With all the fervency of youth,
While passion told the tale of truth,
I mark'd my HANNAH's downcast eye-
"Twas kind, but beautifully shy:

Not with a warmer, purer ray,
The sun, enamour'd, woos young May;
Nor May, with softer maiden grace,
Turns from the sun her blushing face.

But, swifter than the frighted dove,
Fled the gay morning of my love;
Ah! that so bright a morn, so soon
Should vanish in so dark a noon.

The angel of Affliction rose,
And in his grasp a thousand woes;
He pour'd his vial on my head,
And all the heaven of rapture fled.

Yet, in the glory of my pride,

I stood, and all his wrath defied;

I stood, though whirlwinds shook my brain,

And lightnings cleft my soul in twain.

I shunn'd my nymph;—and knew not why
I durst not meet her gentle eye;

I shunn'd her, for I could not bear
To marry her to my despair.

Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd,
Oft the dear image of that maid
Glanced, like the rainbow, o'er my mind,
And promised happiness behind.

The storm blew o'er, and in my breast
The halcyon Peace rebuilt her nest:
The storm blew o'er, and clear and mild
The sea of Youth and Pleasure smiled.

"Twas on the merry morn of May,
TO HANNAH'S cot I took my way:
My eager hopes were on the wing,
Like swallows sporting in the spring.

Then as I climb'd the mountains o'er,
I lived my wooing days once more;
And fancy sketch'd my married lot,
My wife, my children, and my cot.

I saw the village steeple rise,

My
soul sprang, sparkling, in my eyes:
The rural bells rang sweet and clear,―
My fond heart listen'd in mine ear.

I reach'd the hamlet :—all was gay;
I love a rustic holyday:

I met a wedding,-stepp'd aside;
It pass'd, my HANNAH was the bride.

-There is a grief that cannot feel; It leaves a wound that will not heal;

-My heart grew cold, it felt not then; When shall it cease to feel again?

A FIELD FLOWER.

ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM, ON CHRISTMAS DAY,

THERE is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.

The prouder beauties of the field

In gay but quick succession shine,
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to Nature dear,

While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the Sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,

To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath and golden broom
On moory mountains catch the gale,
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.

Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honour of the dead.

1803.

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