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On the publication of this ballad, in the year 1760, Mr. Mallet subjoined an attestation of the truth of the facts related in it, which we shall give the reader literally :

Extract of a letter from the curate of Bowes in Yorkshire, on the subjekt of the preceding poem, to Mr. Copperthwaite at Marrick.

" Worthy fir, " As to the affair mentioned in yours; it happened long sbefore my time. I have therefore been obliged to consult

my clerk, and another person in the neighbourhood for " the truth of that melancholy event. The history of it is

as follows:

The family-name of the young man was Wrightson; of the young maiden Railton. They were both much of " the same age; that is growing up to twenty. In their " birth was no disparity; but in fortune, alas! she was

r his inferior. His father, a hard old man, who had by « his toil acquired a handsome competency, expected and re

quired that his fon shoulil marry suitably. But, as amor vincit omnia, his heart was unalterably fixed on the

pretty young creature already named. Their courtship, " which was all by stealth, unknown to the family, continued about a year. When it was found out, old Wright"fon, his wife, and particularly their crooked daughter Harinah, Aouted at the maiden, and treated her with notable contempt : for they held it as a maxim, and a rustic one it is, that blood was nothing without groats.

66 The

young lover fickened, and took to his bed about Shrode-tuesday, and died the Sunday sevennight after.

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« On the last day of his illness, he desired to see his mifar tress: fise was civily received by the mother, who bid " ber welcome--when it was too late. But her daughter Hannah lay at his back to cut them off from all opportunity of exchanging their thoughts.

" At her return home, on hearing the bell to toll out for his departure, the screamed aloud that her heart was

burst, and expired fome moments after.

" The then curate of * Bowes inserted it in his register, so that they both died of love, and were buried in the same grave, March 15, 1714.

- Dear fir,

Yours, &C.

I am,

* Bowes is a small village in Yorkshire, where in former ages the earls of Richmond had a castle. It stands on the edge of that vast and mountanious tract, named by the neighbouring people Stanemore ; which is always exposed to wind and weather, defolate and folitary throughout. Camd. Brit.

AR in the windings of a vale,

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

An humble cottage stood.

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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 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 Nie 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 flame was quickly caught ;

Was quickly too reveald :
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 blifs too mighty long to last,

Where fortune proves a foe.

His fifter, 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 laft

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.

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 soula

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.

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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 bush his hovering shade,
His

groan in every sound,

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