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But yet, fweet foother, though thou canst not cure; Oh! let thy foft'ning power to aid me move; Thy healing balm fhall help me to endure

Chill Penury's keen touch and hopeless Love.

Bring with thee Charity, sweet, dove-ey'd maid!
And Pity, weeping at another's pain;
Let Hope attend thy train with uprais'd head;
So fhall my heart the heaving figh restrain.

Oh; lead me oft where want and fickness lie,
Forfaken by the proud, the rich, the gay.
Though low my state, I can afford the figh:
Though poor to mifery I've a tear to pay.

Be it my pride within thy humble sphere

To lend to drooping age the aiding hand! To wipe from mifery's eye the gufhing tear, Nor e'er the ftill fmall voice of grief withstand.

Oh bleft fenfations; balm to feeling minds.
To comfort and to foothe the couch of woe,
The luxuries which the good man ever finds,
Be they my lot, let them my heart o'erflow.

Thus by thy aid my days fhall glide away,

Nor riches, fame, nor honour do I crave; Chear'd by thy smile I'll chaunt my penfive lay, And feal contented to my humble grave.

EDWIN AND EMMA.

BY DAVID MALLET.

AR in the windings of a vale

FA

Faft by a fhelt ring wood,

The safe retreat of health and peace,

An humble cottage stood.

There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,
Beneath a mothers eye;

Whofe only wish on earth was now
To fee her bleft and die.

The fofteft blush that Nature spreads
Gave colour to her cheek;

Such orient colour (miles through heav'n.
When vernal mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones fcorn

This charmer of the plains:

That fun who bids her diamond blaze,

To paint our lily deigns.

Long had the 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 foul devoid of art;

And from whofe eye ferenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught;
Was quickly too reveal'd:
For neither bofom lodg'd a wish
That virtue keeps conceal'd.

What happy hours of home-felt blifs
Did love on both bestow!

But blifs too mighty long to last,
Where Fortune proves a foe.

His fifter, who, like Envy form'd,
Like her in mifchief joy'd,

To work them harm, with wicked skill,
Each darker art employ'd.

The father, too, a fordid man,

Who love nor pity knew,

Was all-unfeeling as the clod

From whence his riches grew,

Long had he feen their fecret flame,
And faw it long unmov'd:

Then with a father's frown at last

Had fternly difapprov'd.

In Edwin's gentle heart a war
Of different paffions strove:
His heart that durft not disobey,
Yet could nor cease to love.

Deny'd her fight he oft behind
The fpreading hawthorn crept:

To fnatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walk'd and went.

Oft, too, on Stanmore's wintry wafte
Beneath the moonlight fhade,

In fighs to pour his foften'd foul,'
The midnight mourner ftray'd.

His cheek, where health with beauty glow'd, A deadly pale o'ercast:

So fades the fresh rofe in its prime,

Before the northern blaft.

The parents now, with late remorfe

Hung o'er his dying bed;

And weary'd Heav'n with fruitless vows,
And fruitless forrow fhed.

'Tis paft, he cry'd-but if your

Sweet mercy yet can move,

fouls

Let these dim eyes once more behold

What they must ever love!

She came his cold hand foftly touch'd,
And bath'd with many a tear:
Faft falling o'er the primofe pale,
So morning dews appear.

But lo! his fifter's jealous care,

A cruel fifter fhe:

Forbad what Emma came to say; "My Edwin, live for me.”

Now homeward as fhe hopeless wept
The church-yard path along,

The blaft blew cold, the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral fong.

Amid the falling gloom of night.
Her flattring fancy found

In every bush his hov'ring fhade,

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found.

Alone, appal'd, thus had she pass'd

The vifionary vale

When, lo! the death-bell fmote her ear,

Sad-sounding in the gale :

Juft then he reach'd, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door'-

He's gone! fhe cry'd; and I fhall fee
That angel-face no more!

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