"To win me from his tender arms, "Unnumber'd fuitors came;

"Who prais'd me for imputed charms, "And felt or feign'd a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd

"With richest proffers ftrove: "Among the reft young Edwin bow'd, "But never talk'd of love.

"In humble fimpleft habit clad,
"No wealth nor pow'r had he;
"Wisdom and worth were all he had,
"But thefe were all to me.

"The bloffom opening to the day, "The dews of heav'n refin'd, "Could nought of purity display "To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the bloffom on the tree,

"With charms inconftant fhine; "Their charms were his; but, woe to me! "Their conftancy was mine.

"For ftill I try'd each fickle art, "Importunate and vain;

"And, while his paffion touch'd my heart, "I triumph'd in his pain:

Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
"He left me to my pride,

"And fought a folitude forlorn,
"In fecret, where he died.

"But mine the forrow, mine the fault,
"And well my life shall pay :
"I'll feek the folitude he fought,
"And ftretch me where he lay.

"And there, forlorn, defpairing hid,
"I'll lay me down and die;
""Twas fo for me that Edwin did,
"And fo for him will I.”

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cry'd, And clafp'd her to his breast; The wond'ring fair-one turn'd to chide, 'Twas Edwin's felf that preft.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

"My charmer, turn to fee "Thy own, thy long-loft Edwin here, Reftor'd to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart, "And every care refign!

"And fhall we never, never part, My life my all that's mine?

"No; never from this hour to part, "We'll live and love fo true, "The figh that rends thy constant heart "Shall break thy Edwin's too."

HYMN TO HUMANITY.

BY DR. LANGHORNE.

I.

PARENT of virtue, if thine ear

Attend not now to forrow's cry;

If now the pity-streaming tear

Should haply on thy cheek be dry; Indulge my votive ftrain, O fweet Humanity!

II.

Come, ever welcome to my breast!
A tender but a cheerful gueft;
Nor always in the gloomy cell
Of life-confuming forrow dwell;
For forrow, long indulg'd and flow,
Is to Humanity a foe;

And grief, that makes the heart its prey,

Wears fenfibility away.

Then comes, fweet Nymph, inftead of thee, The gloomy fiend, Stupidity.

III.

may that fiend be banish'd far, Though paffions hold eternal war! Nor ever let me ceafe to know

The pulfe that throbs at joy or woe;
Nor let my vacant cheek be dry,
When forrow fills a brother's eye!

Nor may the tear that frequent flows, From private or from focial woes, E'er make this pleafing sense depart ! Ye Cares! O harden not my heart!

IV.

If the fair ftar of fortune fmile,
Let not its flatt'ring power beguile,
Nor, borne along the fav'ring tide,
My full fails fwell with bloating pride.
Let me from wealth, but hope content,
Remember ftill it was but lent ;
To modeft merit fpread my ftore,
Unbar my hofpitable door;
Nor feed with pomp an idle train,
While want, unpitied, pines in vain..

V.

If Heaven, in every purpose wife,
The envied lot of wealth denies ;
If doom'd to drag life's painful load
Through poverty's uneven road,
And, for the due bread of the day,
Deftin'd to toil as well as pray;
To thee, Humanity, still true,
I'll with the good I cannot do,
And give the wretch that paffes by,
A foothing word-a tear-a figh!

VI.

Howe'er exalted or depreft,
Be ever mine the feeling breaft.
From me remove the ftagnant mind
Of languid indolence, reclin'd;

The foul that one long Sabbath keeps,
And through the fun's whole circle fleeps ;
Dull peace, that dwells in folly's eye,
And felf-attending vanity :

Alike the foolish and the vain
Are ftrangers to the fenfe humane.

VII.

O for that sympathetic glow
Which taught the holy tear to flow,
When the prophetic eye survey'd
Sion in future afhes laid!

Or, rais'd to heav'n, implor'd the bread
That thoufands in the defert fed!

Or, when the heart o'er friendship's grave
Sigh'd, or forgot its power
to fave;
O for that fympathetic glow

Which taught the holy tear to flɔw !

VIII.

It comes: it fills my labouring breaft;
I feel my beating heart oppreft.
Oh! hear that lonely widow's wail!
See her dim eye! her afpect pale!
'To Heaven the turns in deep despair,
Her infants wonder at her pray'r;
And, mingling tears, they know not why,
Lift up their little hands, and cry.
O God! their moving forrows fee!
Support them, fweet Humanity!

IX.

Life, fill'd with grief's diftrefsful train,
For ever asks the tear humane.