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"From better habitations spurn'd,
"Alas! the joys that fortune brings,
"And what is friendship but a name,
"And love is still an emptier sound,
"For shame, fond youth; thy sorrows hush, "And spurn the sex," he said;
But while he spoke, a rising blush
Surprized! he sees new beauties rise,
The bashful look, the rising breast,
"And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, “A wretch forlorn,” she cried :
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude "Where heaven and you reside.
"But let a maid thy pity share,
"Whom love has taught to stray; "Who seeks for rest, but finds despair "Companion of her way.
"My father lived beside the Tyne, "A wealthy lord was he;
"And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, “He had but only me.
"To win me from his tender arms,
"Each hour the mercenary crowd,
"In humble, simplest habit clad,
The blossom opening to the day, "The dews of heaven refined, Could nought of purity display, "To emulate his mind.
The dew, the blossom on the tree, "With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe is me, "Their constancy was mine.
"For still I tried each fickle art, "Importunate and vain:
"And while his passion touch'd my heart, "I triumph'd in his pain. "Till quite dejected with my scorn, "He left me to my pride; "And sought a solitude forlorn, "In secret where he died.
"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
""Twas so for me that Edwin did,
"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair one turn'd to chide; 'Twas Edwin's self that press'd.
"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
"My charmer, turn to see "Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, "Restored to love and thee.
"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
"No, never from this hour to part, "We'll live and love so true,
“The sigh that rends thy constant heart. "Shall break thy Edwin's too."
HYMN ON SOLITUDE.
BY JAMES THOMSON.
HAIL, mildly pleasing Solitude, Companion of the wise and good: But from whose holy piercing eye The herd of fools and villains fly.
Oh! how I love with thee to walk, And listen to thy whisper'd talk, Which innocence and truth imparts, And melts the most obdurate hearts.
A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
Of that sweet passion in your face:
Thine is the balmy breath of morn, Just as the dew-bent rose is born;
And while meridian fervors beat,
Descending angels bless thy train, The virtues of the sage and swain ; Plain innocence, in white array'd, Before thee lifts her fearless head: Religion's beams around thee shine, And cheer thy glooms with light divine: About thee sports sweet Liberty; And rapt Urania sings to thee.
Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell! And in thy deep recesses dwell. Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill, When meditation has her fill, I just may cast my careless eyes Where London's spiry turrets rise; Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain, Then shield me in the woods again.