Nor let the pride of great-ones scorn
This charmer of the plains:

That sun, who bids their diamonds 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 eye, serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught:
Was quickly too reveal'd:
For neither bosom lodg'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 Stanmore's wintery 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.

The parents now, with late remorse,

Hung o'er his dying bed;

And wearied heaven with fruitless vows,

And fruitless sorrows shed.

""Tis past!" he cried-" but if your souls Sweet mercy yet can move,

Let these dim eyes once more behold,
What they must ever love!"

She came; his cold hand softly touch'd,
And bath'd with many a tear:
Fast-falling o'er the primrose pale,
So morning dews appear.

But oh! his sister's jealous care,

A cruel sister she!

Forbade what Emma came to say;

My Edwin, live for me!"

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

The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found

In every bush his hovering shade,
His groan in every sound.

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

The visionary vale

When lo! the death-bell smote her ear,
Sad sounding in the gale!

Just then she reach'd, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door-

"He's gone!" she cried; " and I shall see That angel-face no more.

"I feel, I feel this breaking heart Beat high against my side"

From her white arm down sunk her head; She shivering sigh'd, and died.

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

'TWAS at the silent, solemn hour,
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April-morn,
Clad in a wintery cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear,

When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew;

The rose was budded in her cheek,

Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consum'd her early prime;

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She died before her time.

"Awake!" she cried, "thy true-love calls,
Come from her midnight-grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refus'd to save.

"This is the dumb and dreary hour,
When injur'd ghosts complain:
When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.

"Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath!
And give me back my maiden-vow,
And give me back my troth.

"Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?

Why did you swear my eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep?

"How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?

How could you win my virgin-heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?

66

Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?

And why did I, young witless maid!
Believe the flattering tale?

"That face, alas! no more is fair,

Those lips no longer red:

Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
And every charm is fled.

"The hungry worm my sister is;

This winding sheet I wear:

And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.

"But, hark! the cock has warn'd me hence;

A long and late adieu !

Come, see, false man, how low she lies,

Who died for love of you."

The lark sung loud; the morning smil'd,
With beams of rosy red:

Pale William quak'd in every limb,
And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay;

And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf,
That wrapp'd her breathless clay.

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spoke never more!

SONG.

THE smiling morn, the breathing spring
Invite the tuneful birds to sing:

And while they warble from each spray,
Love melts the universal lay.
Let us, Amanda, timely wise,
Like them improve the hour that flies;
And, in soft raptures, waste the day,
Among the shades of Endermay.

For soon the winter of the year,
And age, life's winter, will appear:
At this, thy living bloom must fade;
As that will strip the verdant shade.
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er;
The feather'd songsters love no more:
And when they droop, and we decay,
Adieu the shades of Endermay!