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What happy hours of home-felt blifs
Did love on both beftow!
But blifs too mighty long to last,
Where fortune proves a foe.

His fifter, who, like Envy form'd,
Like her in mifchief 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 feen their secret flame,
And feen it long unmov'd:
Then with a father's frown at last
Had fternly disapprov❜d.

In Edwin's gentle heart, a war
Of different paffions ftrove:
His heart, that durft not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.

Deny'd her fight, he oft behind
The fpreading hawthorn crept,
To fnatch a glance, to mark the fpot
Where Emma walk'd and wept.

Oft too on Stanemore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight-fhade,
In fighs to pour his foften'd foul,
The midnight-mourner ftray'd..

His cheek, where health with beauty glow'd,
A deadly pale o'ercaft:

So fades the fresh rofe in its prime,
Before the northern blaft.

The parents now, with late remorfe,
Hung o'er his dying bed;

And weary'd heaven with fruitlefs vows,
And fruitlefs forrow shed.

'Tis paft! he cry'd-but if your fouls
Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let thefe dim eyes once more behold,
What they must ever love!

She came; his cold hand foftly 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 fhe!

Forbade what Emma came to fay;

"My Edwin live for me."

Now homeward as the hopeless wept
The church-yard path along,

The blaft blew cold, the dark owl fcream'd

Her lover's funeral fong.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her ftartling fancy found

In every bush his hovering fhade,
His groan in every found.

Alone, appal'd, thus had she past
The vifionary vale-

When lo! the death-bell fmote her ear,
Sad-founding in the gale!

Juft then she reach'd, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door-
He's gone! fhe cry'd; and I fhaft fee
That angel-face no more!

I feel, I feel this breaking heart
Beat high against my fide-

From her white arm down funk her head;
She fhivering figh'd, and died.

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"TURN

URN, gentle hermit of the dale,
"And guide my lonely way,

"To where yon taper cheers the vale,
"With hofpitable ray.

"For here forlorn and loft I tread,
"With fainting fteps and flow;
"Where wilds immeafurably spread,
"Seem lengthening as I go."

"Forbear my fon," the hermit cries, "To tempt the dang'rous gloom; "For yonder faithlefs phantom flies "To lure thee to thy doom.

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"Here to the houseless child of want,

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My door is open still;

"And tho' my portion is but fcant, "I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share
"Whate'er my cell beftows;
"My rufhy couch and frugal fare,
"My bleffing and repofe.

"No flocks that range the valley free, "To flaughter I condemn : "Taught by that power that pities me, "I learn to pity them:

But from the mountain's graffy fide
"A guiltless feaft I bring;

"A fcrip with herbs and fruits fupply'd, "And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

"For earth-born cares are wrong: "Man wants but little here below, "Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heav'n defcends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modeft tranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obfcure
The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And ranger's led aftray.

No ftores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care;

The wicket op'ning with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.

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