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AR in the windings of a vale,

Faft by a sheltering wood, The fafe retreat of Health and Peace,

An humble cottage stood.

There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,

Beneath a mother's eye ;
Whose only wish on carth was now

To see her bleft, and die.

The loftest blush that nature spreads

Gave colour to her cheek :
Such orient colour smiles thro' heaven

When May's sweet mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones fcorn

This charmer of the plains : That sun who bids their diamond blaze,

To paint our lilly deigns.

Long had the fill'd each yonth with love,

Each maiden with despair; And tho’ by all a wonder own’d,

Yet knew not Me was fair,


Till Edwin came, the pride of fwains,

A soul that knew no art;
And from whose eye, ferenely mild,

Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual fame 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 fister, 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 fordid 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 different paffions (trove :
His heart, that durft not disobey,

Yet could not cease to love.

Deny'd her fight, 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 wade,

Beneath the moonlight-shade, In fighs to pour his soften’d soul,

The midnight-mourner stray'd.

His check, where health with beauty glow'd,

A deadly pale 'o'ercast :
So fades the fresh rose in its prime,

Before the northern blast.

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The parents now, with late remorse,

Hung o'er his dying bed ;
And weary'd heaven with fruitless vows,

And fruitless sorrow shed.

'Tis paft! he cry'd 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 bath'd with many a tear : Faft-falling o'er the primrose pale,

So morning-dews appear.

But oh! his fifter's jealous care

A cruel fifter she !
Forbade what Emma came to say ;

My Edwin live for me.”

Now homeward as she hopeless wept

The church-yard path along,
The blaft blew cold, the dark owl scream'd

Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found
In every bufh his hovering fade,

in every


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Alone, appal'd, thus had the past

The visionary valeWhen lo! the death-bell [mote her ear,

Sad-founding in the gale!

Just then she reach'd, with trembling step,

Her aged mother's door
He's gone! the cry'd; and I fall fee

That angel-face no more !

I feel, I feel this breaking heart

Beat high againft my fidem From her white arm down funk her head;

She shivering figh’d, and died.

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TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,

“And guide iny lonely way, " To where yon taper cheers the vale,

“ With hospitable ray.


" For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting iteps and flow; “ Where wilds immeasurably spread,

“ Seem lengthening as I go."

" Forbear my fon," the hermit cries,

“ To tempt the dang'roue gloom; • For yonder faithleso phantom files " To lure thee to thy doom.


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