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Will no pitying power that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?

To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove:
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return;
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair :
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye love one so fair.



Mark it, Cesario, it is true and plain;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love,

Like the old age.

Shaksp. Twelfth Night.

FAR 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 bless'd and die.

The softest blush that Nature spreads,

Gave colour to her cheek;

Such orient colour smiles through Heav'n

When vernal mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn

This charmer of the plains;

That sun which bids their diamond blaze

To paint our lily deigns.

Long had she fill'd each youth with love,

Each maiden with despair,

And though by all a wonder own'd,

Yet knew not she was fair;

Till Edwin came, the pride of swains!

A soul devoid of 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
That virtue keeps conceal'd.

What happy hours of home-felt 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 clod

From whence his riches grew.

Long had he seen their secret flame,

And seen it long unmov'd,

Then with a father's frown at last

Had sternly disapprov'd.

In Edwin's gentle heart a war
Of differing passions strove ;
His heart, that 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, on Stanemore'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 Heav'n with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrow 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 bathed 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!

Forbade what Emma came to say,

'My Edwin! live for me.'

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.

Amid the falling gloom of night

Her startling fancy found

In every bush his hovering shade,

His groan in every sound.

Alone, appall'd, 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 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 shivering sigh'd, and died,


TWAS at the silent solemn hour

When night and morning meet, In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud,

And clay-cold was her lily hand
That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear
When youth and years are flown;
Such is the robe that kings must wear
When Death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flow'r
That sips the silver dew;

The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view

But Love had, like the canker-worm,

Consum'd her early prime:

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;

She died before her time.

'Awake!' she cried, thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave;

Now let thy pity hear the maid

Thy love refus'd to save.

This is the dumb and dreary hour

When injur'd ghosts complain,

When yawning graves give up their dead To haunt the faithless swain.

Bethink thee, William! of thy fault,

Thy pledge and broken oath,

And give me back my maiden vow,

And give me back my troth.

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