« 上一页继续 »
There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,
Beneath a mother's eye,
To see her bless'd and die.
The softest blush that Nature spreads
Gave colour to her cheek: Such orient colour smiles through heaven,
When vernal mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
This charmer of the plains; That sun who bids their diamond blaze,
To paint our lily deigns.
Long had she fill'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair ;
Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A soul devoid of art,
Shone forth the feeling heart.
A mutual flame was quickly caught;
Was quickly too reveald;
That virtue keeps conceald.
What happy hours of home-felt bliss
Did love on both bestow!
Where fortune proves a foe.
His sister, 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 sordid 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 saw it long unmoved: Then with a father's frown at last
Had sternly disapproved.
In Edwin's gentle heart, a war
Of differing passions strove: His heart, that durst not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love,
Denied her sight, he oft behind
The spreading hawthorn crept, To snatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walk'd and wept.
Oft too on Stanmore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade, In sighs to pour his soften'd soul,
The midnight mourner stray'd.
His cheek, where health with beauty glow'd,
A deadly pale o'ercast;
Before the northern blast.
The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed ;
And fruitless sorrow shed.
“ 'Tis past!” he cried—“ but if your souls
Sweet mercy yet can move,
What they must ever love."
his cold hand softly touch'd, And bathed with many a tear; Fast falling o'er the primrose pale,
So morning dews appear.
But oh! his sister's jealous care
(A cruel sister she) Forbade what Emma came to say;
My Edwin! live for me."
Now homeward as she hopeless wept
The church-yard path along, The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral song.
Amid the falling gloom of night,
His groan in every sound.
Alone, appalld, thus had she pass'd
The visionary vale-
Sad-sounding in the gale!
Just then she reach'd, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door“ He's gone,” she cried; " and I shall see
That angel face no more!
“ I feel, I feel this breaking heart
Beat high against my side—" From her whitę arm down sunk her head;
She shivering sigh'd, and died.
BY MRS. CARTER.
The midnight moon serenely smiles
O'er nature's soft repose,
Nor ruffling tempest blows.
Now every passion sinks to rest,
The throbbing heart lies still;
Distract the labouring will.
In silence hush'd, to Reason's voice
Attends each mental power; Come, dear Emilia, and enjny • Reflection's favourite hour.
Come, while the peaceful scene invites,
Let's search this ample round; Where shaļl the lovely fleeting form
Of Happiness be found?
Does it amidst the frolic mirth
Of gay assemblies dwell?
That shades the hermit's cell?