Sivut kuvina

His rising cares the hermit spied,

With answering cares oppress'd ; * And whence, unhappy youth,' he cried,

• The sorrows of thy breast?

From better habitation spurn'd,

Reluctant dost thou rove;
Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d,

Or unregarded love?

Alas! the joys that fortune brings,

Are trifling and decay!
And those that prize the paltry things,

More trifling still than they.

And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lalls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,

But leaves the wretch to weep?

And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest: On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.

'For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex,' he said :
But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-loru guest betray'd.

Surpris'd, he sees vew beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

The bashiful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms :
The lovely stranger stands confess'd

A maid in all her charms.

And,' Ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn,' she cried; * Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

Where heaven and you reside.

* But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.

My father liv'd beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd for mine,

He had but only me.

* To win me from his tender arms

Unnumber'd suitors came:
Who prais'd me for imputed charms,

And felt or feign’d a flame.

* Each hour the mercenary crowd

With richest presents strove : Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,

But never talk'd of love.

* In humble simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

"The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refin'd, Could nought of purity display,

To emulate his mind.

* The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine ;. Their charms were his, but woe is me,

Their constancy was mine.

For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain.

* Till quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret where he died.

*But mine the sorrow,

mine the fault, And well my life shall pay ; I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

[ocr errors]

And there forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die ; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I.'

'Forbid it, Heaven!” the hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast : The wondering fair one turn’d to chide,

'Twas Edwin's self that press'd.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see,
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restor'd to love and thee.

• Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And ev'ry care resign.'
And shall we never, never part,

My life—my all that's mine?'

No, never from this hour to part;

We'll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too.'



Far in the windings of a vale,

Fast by a shelt'ring wood,
The safe retreat of health and peace,

A humble cottage stood.

There beanteous 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 May's sweet mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn

This charmer of the plains; That sun which bids their diamond blaze,

To deck our lily deigns.

Long had sbe fir'd each youth with love,

Each maiden with despair;
And thongh by all a wonder own'd,

Yet knew not she was fair.

Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,

A soul that knew no art,
And from whose eyes serenely mild,

Shope forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught,

Was quickly too reveal’d;
For neither bosom lodg'd a wish,

Which virtue keeps conceal'd.

What happy hours of heartfelt 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 rock

From whence his riches grew.

« EdellinenJatka »