Oft, too, on Stanmore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade,

In sighs to pour his soften'd soul,
The midnight mourner stray'd.

His cheek, where health 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 Heaven with fruitless vows,

And fruitless sorrows shed.

Now homeward as she hopeless wept

The church-yard path along,

The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd Her lover's funeral song.

EDWIN AND EMMA.

Amid the falling gloom of night,
Her startling fancy found
In every bush his hov'ring shade,

His groan in every sound.

Alone, appall'd, thus had she passed

The visionary vale

When lo! the death-bell smote her ear,

Sad sounding in the gale!

Just then she reach'd, with trembling step,

Her aged mother's door:

"He's gone!" she cried, "and I shall see That angel-face no more!

"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.