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Why was I then, ye powers, reserv'd for this?
Nor sunk that moment in the vast abyss ?
Devour'd at once by the relentless wave,
And whelm'd for ever in a wat'ry grave ?
Down, ye wild wishes of unruly woe! -
I see her with immortal beauty glow,
The early wrinkle, care-contracted, gone,
Her tears all wipe'd, and all her sorrows flown ;
The' exalted voice of Heav'n I hear hier breathe,
To soothe her soul in agonies of death.
I see her through the mansions blest above,
And now she meets her dear expecting Love.
Heart-cheering sight! but yet, alas ! o'erspread
By the damp gloom of Grief's uncheerful shade.
Come then of reason the reflecting hour,
And let me trust the kind o'ér-ruling Power,
Who from the night commands the shining day,
The poor man's portion, and the orphan's stay !

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Y time, O ye Muses! was happily spent,

When Phæbe went with me wherever I went:
Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my breast:
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest.
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possible be,
I thought it was Spring; but, alas ! it was she.

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phæbe was there, It was pleasant to look at, 'twas music to hear. But, now she is absent, I walk by its side, And, still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide : Must you be so cheerful, whilst I go in pain ? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me com

plain. My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phæbe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said, 'Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry, 'Sirrah,' and give him a blow with my crook : And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be dull as his master, when Phæbe's away?

Sweet music went with us both all the wood thro', The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too ; Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gives every thing else its agreeable sound,

Will no pitying power that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?
To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, Deity, bid the dear nymph to return;
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair :
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye love one so fair.

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Mark it, Cesario, it is true and plain ;
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to cbant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.

Shaksp. Twelfth Night.

FAR in the windings of a vale,

Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of Health and Peace,
An humble cottage stood :
There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair
Beneath a mother's eye,
Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her bless'd and die.

The softest blush that Nature spreads,
Gave colour to her cheek;
Such orient colour smiles through Heav'n
When vernal mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
This charmer of the plains;
That sun which bids their diamond blaze
To paint our lily deigns.
Long had she fill'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair,
And though by all a wonder own'd,
Yet knew not she was fair;
Till Edwin came, the pride of swains !
A soul devoid of art,
And from whose eyes, serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.


A mutual flame was quickly caught,
Was quickly too reveal'd,
For neither bosom Jodg'd a wish
That virtue keeps conceal'd.
What happy hours of home-felt bliss
Did love on both bestow !
But bliss too mighty long to last
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 seen it long unmov'd,
Then with a father's frown at last
Had sternly disapprov'd.
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 Stanemore'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;
So fades the fresh rose in its prime
Before the northern blast.


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