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! Oh; lead me oft where want and fickness lie, 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. 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, Whofe only wish on earth was now The fofteft blush that Nature spreads Such orient colour (miles through heav'n. 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, A mutual flame was quickly caught; What happy hours of home-felt blifs But blifs too mighty long to last, His fifter, who, like Envy form'd, To work them harm, with wicked skill, 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, Then with a father's frown at last Had fternly difapprov'd. In Edwin's gentle heart a war Deny'd her fight he oft behind To fnatch a glance, to mark the spot Oft, too, on Stanmore's wintry wafte In fighs to pour his foften'd foul,' 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, '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, 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 blaft blew cold, the dark owl scream'd Amid the falling gloom of night. In every bush his hov'ring fhade, 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, He's gone! fhe cry'd; and I fhall fee |