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In all the pride of youthful charms,
A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms!
And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears,
By ev'ry art that science could devise; Alas! it languish'd for a mother's aid,
And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skies. Then, oh! our comforts be the same,
At evening's peaceful hour,
To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame,
But why, alas! to thee complain,
To thee-unconscious of my pain?.
Soon shalt thou cease to mourn thy lot severe,
The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring
I count my sorrows by increasing years.
Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, say,
O what delusion did thy tongue employ! "That Emma's fatal pledge of love,
Her last bequest, with all a mother's care,
And cheer a heart long lost to joy!"
How oft, when fondling in my arms,
My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace, And burn with all a father's fond alarms! And oh what flattering scenes had fancy feign'd! How did I rave of blessings yet in store! Till ev'ry aching sense was sweetly pain'd,
And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could utter more.
"Just Heaven!" I cried, with recent hopes elate, "Yet will I live-will live, tho' Emma's dead; So long bow'd down beneath the storms of fate, Yet will I raise my woe.dejected head!
My little Emma, now my all,
Will want a father's care;
Her looks, her wants, my rash resolves recal,
Complaint the only bliss my soul can know. From me my child shall learn the mournful strain, And prattle tales of woe.
And, oh! in that auspicious hour,
When Fate resigns her persecuting pow'r, With duteous zeal her hand shall close,
No more to weep, my sorrow-streaming eyes, When death gives misery repose,
And opes a glorious passage to the skies."
Vain thought! it must not be-she too is dead; The flatt'ring scene is o'er;
My hopes for ever, ever fled;
And vengeance can no more.
Crush'd by misfortune, blasted by disease,
Perhaps, obsequious to my will,
But, ah! from my affections far remov'd!
As if, unconscious of poetic fire,
I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre;
Yet, while this weary life shall last,
While yet my tongue can form th' impassion'd strain,
In piteous accents shall the muse complain,
From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow,
And pay my pensive Muse the tribute of a tear.
• Lord Lyttelton.
OWEN OF CARRON.
N Carron's side the primrose pale,
Why does it wear a purple hue? Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,
Why stream your eyes with Pity's dew?
'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood
That purple grows the primrose pale; That Pity pours the tender flood
From each fair eye in Marlivale.
The evening star sate in his eye,
Beneath no high, historic stone,
There many a flowery race hath sprung,
Yet still, when May with fragrant feet
That dirge I hear so simply sweet
"Twas in the pride of William's day, When Scotland's honours flourish'd still, That Moray's earl, with mighty sway, Bore rule o'er many a Highland hill.
William the Lion, king of Scotland.
And far for him their fruitful store
An only daughter crown'd his bed.
Oh! write not poor-the wealth that flows In waves of gold round India's throne, All in her shining breast that glows,
To Ellen's charms, were earth and stone.
For her the youth of Scotland sigh'd,
And many an English baron brave.
In vain by foreign arts assail'd,
No foreign loves her breast beguile,
"Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love
'Twas thus a wayward sister spoke,
She spoke and vanish'd-more unmov'd
With aught that fear, or fate suggest.
For Love, methinks, hath power to raise