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Let man, by nobler passions sway'd,
In heavenly praise employ;
The general burst of joy.
Ye, whom the charms of grandeur please,
Fall prostrate at his throne:
An image of his own.
Ye fair, by nature form’d to move,
With youth's enlivening fire:
And ask an angel's lyre.
MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY.
YET do I live? O how shall I sustain
This vast unutterable weight of woe?
Or all the complicated ills below?
Is gone-for ever fled
My dearest Emma's dead;
I, who the tedious absence of a day
Remov'd, would languish for my charmer's sight;
How, how shall I endure
(O misery past a cure !) Hours, days, and years, successively to roll, Nor ever more. behold the comfort of my soul?
Was she not all my fondest wish could frame?
Did ever mind so much of heaven partake? Did she not love me with the purest flame? And give up friends and fortune for my sake?
Tho' mild as evening skies,
With downcast, streaming eyes,
Come then, some Muse, the saddest of the train
(No more your bard shall dwell on idle lays,) Teach me each moving melancholy strain,
And, oh! discard the pageantry of phrase: Ill suits the flowers of speech with woes like mine!
Thus, haply, as I paint
The source of my complaint, My soul may own th' impassion'd line; A flood of tears may gush to my relief, And from my swelling heart discharge this load of grief.
Forbear, my fond officious friends, forbear
To wound my ears with the sad tales you tell ; “ How good she was, how gentle, and how fair?"
In pity cease-alas ! I know too well How in her sweet expressive face
Beam'd forth the beauties of her mind, Yet heighten'd by exterior grace,
Of manners most engaging, most refin'd.
No piteous object could she see,
But her soft bosom shar'd the woe, While smiles of affability
Endear'd whatever boon she might bestow.
Still shone conspicuous in her eyes,
And, oh! the boast how rare !
In secret silence lodg'd inviolate there.
Relentless death! that, steel'd to human woe,
With murderous hands deals havock on mankind, Why (cruel!) strike this deprecated blow,
And leave such wretched multitudes behind ?
Hark! groans come wing'd on every breeze!
The sons of grief prefer their ardent vow,
And supplicate thy aid, as I do now:
But, oh! fell tyrant! yet expect the hour
Some sad memento of my loss appears;
But, ah! in vain-no change of time or place
The memory can efface
Where were the delegates of heaven, oh, where!
Appointed Virtue's children safe to keep? Had Innocence or Virtue been their care,
She had not died, nor had I liv'd to weep: Mov'd by my tears, and by her patience mov'd,
To see her force the endearing smile,
My sorrows to beguile,
Ah, my lov'd lord, the transient scene is o'er, “ And we must part, alas ! to meet no more!
“ But, oh! if e'er thy Emma's name was dear, “ If e'er thy vows have charm'd my ravish'd ear; “ If, from thy lov'd embrace my heart to gain, “ Proud friends have frown'd, and fortune smil'd in
“ If it has been my sole endeavour still “ To act in all obsequious to thy will; “ To watch thy very smiles, thy wish to know, “ Then only truly blest when thou wert so; « If I have doated with that fond excess, “ Nor Love could add, nor Fortune make it less; “ If this I've done, and more-oh! then be kind “ To the dear lovely babe I leave behind. “ When time my once lov'd memory shall efface, " Some happier maid may take thy Emma's place, • With envious eyes thy partial fondness see, “ And hate it for the love thou bor'st to me! “ My dearest Shaw, forgive a woman's fears; “ But one word more-I cannot bear tby tears“ Promise-and I will trust thy faithful vow “ (Oft have I tried, and ever found thee true) “ That to some distant spot thou wilt remove “ This fatal pledge of hapless Emma's love, • Where safe thy blandishments it may partake, “ And, oh! be tender for its mother's sake. " Wilt thou ?-“ I know thou wilt-sad silence speaks assent; “ And in that pleasing hope thy Emma dies content."
I, who with more than manly strength have bore
The various ills impos'd by cruel Fate, Sustain the firmness of my soul no more;
But sink beneath the weight; Just Heaven ! I cried, from Memory's earliest day
No comfort has thy wretched suppliant known; Misfortune still with unrelenting sway,
Has claim'd me for her own. But, oh! in pity to my grief, restore This only source of bliss; I ask-I ask no more