FROM AMYNTOR AND THEODORA.

FAR in the watery waste, where his broad wave,
From world to world, the vast Atlantic rolls
On from the piny shores of Labrador
To frozen Thulé east, her airy height
Aloft to heaven remotest Kilda lifts;
Last of the sea-girt Hebrides, that guard,
In filial train, Britannia's parent coast.

Thrice happy land! though freezing on the verge
Of arctic skies; yet, blameless still of arts
That polish to deprave each softer clime;
With simple nature, simple virtue blest!
Beyond Ambition's walk: where never War
Uprear'd his sanguine standard; nor unsheath'd

For wealth or power, the desolating sword.
Where Luxury, soft syren, who around

To thousand nations deals her nectar'd cup
Of pleasing bane, that soothes at once and kills,
Is yet a name unknown. But calm content
That lives to reason; ancient faith that binds
The plain community of guileless hearts
In love and union; innocence of ill

Their guardian genius: these, the powers that rule
This little world, to all its sons secure;
Man's happiest life; the soul serene and sound
From passion's rage, the body from disease.
Red on each cheek behold the rose of health;
Firm in each sinew vigour's pliant spring,
By temperance brac'd to peril and to pain,
Amid the floods they stem, or on the steep
Of upright rocks their straining steps surmount,
For food or pastime. These light up their morn,
And close their eve in slumbers sweetly deep,
Beneath the north, within the circling swell
Of ocean's raging sound. But last and best,
What avarice, what ambition shall not know,
True liberty is theirs, the heaven-sent guest,
Who in the cave, or on th' uncultur'd wild,
With independence dwells; and peace of mind,
In youth, in age, their sun that never sets.

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 blest, and die.

The softest blush that nature spreads

Gave colour to her cheek;

Such orient colour smiles through heaven,

When vernal mornings break.

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 stròve:
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.

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.

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.