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Alas! she might not-her relentless lord

Had seal'd her lips, and chid her streaming tear; So anguish in her breast conceal'd its hoard, And all the mother sunk in dumb despair.

But thou who own'st a father's sacred name, What act impell'd thee to this ruthless deed? What crime had forfeited my filial claim? [bleed? And given (oh blasting thought!) thy heart to

If then thine injur'd child deserve thy care,
Oh haste and bear her from this lonesome gloom!
In vain no words can sooth his rigid ear;
And Gallia's laws have rivetted my doom.

Ye cloister'd fair-ye censure-breathing saints,
Suppress your taunts, and learn at length to spare,
Though mid these holy walls I vent my plaints,
And give to sorrow what is due to prayer.

I fled not to this mansion's deep recess,
To veil the blushes of a guilty shame,
The tenor of an ill-spent life redress,
And snatch from infamy a sinking name.

Yet let me to my fate submissive bow;
From fatal symptoms if I right conceive,
This stream, OPHELIA, has not long to flow,
This voice to murmur, and this breast to heave.

Ah! when, extended on th' untimely bier,

To yonder vault this form shall be convey'd, Thou❜lt not refuse to shed one grateful tear,

And breathe the requiem to my fleeting shade.

With pious footstep join the sable train,

[way;

As through the lengthening aisle they take their

A glimmering taper let thy hand sustain,

Thy soothing voice attune the funeral lay:

Behold the minister who lately gave

The sacred veil, in garb of mournful hue, (More friendly office) bending o'er my grave, And sprinkling my remains with hallow'd dew:

As o'er the corsé he strews the rattling dust,
The sternest heart will raise compassion's sigh:
Ev'n then no longer to his child unjust,
The tears may trickle from a father's eye.
Jerningham.

ELEGY ON A PILE OF RUINS.

In the full prospect yonder hill commands,
O'er barren heaths and cultivated plains;
The vestige of an ancient abbey stands,
Close by a ruin'd castle's rude remains.

Half buried, there lie many a broken bust,
And obelisk, and urn, o'erthrown by Time;
And many a cherub, there, descends in dust
From the rent roof, and portico sublime.

The rivulets, oft frighted at the sound

Of fragments tumbling from the tow'rs on high, Plung'd to their source in secret caves profound, Leaving their banks and pebbly bottoms dry,

Where reverend shrines in gothic grandeur stood,
The nettle or the noxious nightshade spreads;
And ashlings, wafted from the neighbouring wood,
Through the worn turrets wave their trembling
heads.

There Contemplation, to the crowd unknown,
Her attitude compos'd, and aspect sweet,
Sits musing on a monumental stone,

And points to the memento at her feet.

Soon as sage Evening check'd Day's sunny pride,
I left the mantling shade in moral mood;
And seated by the maid's sequester'd side,

Sigh'd, as the mouldering monuments I view'd.

Inexorably calm, with silent pace

[way! Here Time hath pass'd-What ruin marks his This pile, now crumbling o'er its hallow'd base, Turn'd not his step, nor could his course delay.

Religion rais'd her supplicating eyes

In vain, and Melody her song sublime: In vain, Philosophy, with maxims wise,

Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of Time. Yet the hoar tyrant, though not mov'd to spare, Relented when he struck its finish'd pride; And partly the rude ravage to repair,

The tottering tow'rs with twisted ivy tied.

How solemn is the cell o'ergrown with moss, That terminates the view, yon cloister'd way! In the crush'd wall, a time-corroded cross, Religion-like, stands mouldering in decay!

Where the mild sun, through saint-encipher'd glass
Illum'd with mellow light yon dusky aisle,
Many rapt hours might Meditation pass,
Slow moving 'twixt the pillars of a pile!

And Piety, with mystic-meaning beads,
Bowing to saints on every side inurn'd,
Trod oft the solitary path that leads

Where now the sacred altar lies o'erturn'd!

Through the gray grove, between those withering trees,

'Mongst a rude group of monuments, appears
A marble-imag'd matron on her knees,
Half wasted, like a Niobe in tears.

Low levell'd in the dust her darling's laid!
Death pitied not the pride of youthful bloom ;
Nor could maternal piety dissuade,

Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb.

The relics of a mitred saint may rest,

Where, mouldering in the niche, his statue stands; Now nameless as the crowd that kiss'd his vest, And crav'd the benediction of his hands.

Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,
The bones of an illustrious chieftian lie;
As, trac'd among the fragments of his tomb,
The trophies of a broken Fame imply.

Ah! what avails, that o'er the vassal plain

His rights and rich demesnes extended wide! That Honour and her knights compos'd his train, And Chivalry stood marshall'd by his side!

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Though to the clouds his castle seem'd to climb,
And frown'd defiance on the desperate foe;
Though deem'd invincible, the conqueror Time
Levell❜d the fabric, as the founder, low.

Where the light lyre gave many a softening sound,
Ravens and rooks, and birds of discord, dwell;
And where Society sat sweetly crown'd,
Eternal Solitude has fix'd her cell.

The lizard and the lazy lurking bat

Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room, Where the sage matron and her maidens sat, Sweet singing at the silver-working loom.

The traveller's bewilder'd on a waste,

And the rude winds incessant seem to roar, Where, in his groves with arching arbours grac❜d, Young lovers often sigh'd in days of yore.

His aqueducts, that form'd a limpid tide
To pure canals, a crystal cool supply!
In the deep dust their barren beauties hide:
Time's thirst, unquenchable,has drain'd them dry!
Though his rich hours in revelry were spent,
With Comus, and the laughter-loving crew;
And the sweet brow of Beauty, still unbent,
Brighten'd his fleecy moments as they flew :

Fleet are the fleecy moments! fly they must;
Not to be stay'd by mask or midnight roar!
Nor shall a pulse, among that mouldering dust,
Beat wanton at the smiles of Beauty more!

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