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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 heaven,

When vernal mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn

This charmer of the plains; That sun who 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 eye, serenely mild,

Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught;

Was quickly too reveald;
For neither bosom lodged a wish,

That virtue keeps conceald.

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 saw it long unmoved: Then with a father's frown at last

Had sternly disapproved.

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 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 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 startli

fancy found
In every bush his hovering shade,

His groan in every sound.

Alone, appalld, 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 whitę arm down sunk her head;

She shivering sigh'd, and died.




The midnight moon serenely smiles

O'er nature's soft repose,
No lowering cloud obscures the sky,

Nor ruffling tempest blows.

Now every passion sinks to rest,

The throbbing heart lies still;
And varying schemes of life no more

Distract the labouring will.

In silence hush'd, to Reason's voice

Attends each mental power; Come, dear Emilia, and enjny • Reflection's favourite hour.

Come, while the peaceful scene invites,

Let's search this ample round; Where shaļl the lovely fleeting form

Of Happiness be found?

Does it amidst the frolic mirth

Of gay assemblies dwell?
Or hide beneath the solemn gloom

That shades the hermit's cell?

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