Yet let me to my fate submissive bow;

From fatal symptoms, if I right conceive, This stream, Ophelia, has not long to flow,

This voice to murmur, and this breast to heave:

Ah! when extended on th' untimely bier,

To yonder vault this form shall be convey'd,
Thou❜lt not refuse to shed one grateful tear,
And breathe the requiem to my fleeting shade:

With pious footstep join the sable train,

As through the length'ning aisle they take their way; A glimmering taper let thy hand sustain,

Thy soothing voice attune the funeral lay:

Behold the minister who lately gave

The sacred veil, in garb of mournful hue, (More friendly office!) bending o'er my grave, And sprinkling my remains with hallow'd dew:

As o'er the corse he strews the rattling dust,
The sternest heart will raise compassion's sigh;
Ev'n then, no longer to his child unjust,

The tears may trickle from a father's eye.

EDWIN AND EMMA.

[MALLET.]

FAR in the windings of a vale,

Fast by a shelt'ring wood,

The safe retreat of health and peace,
A 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 Heav'n,
When May's sweet mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn

The charmer of the plains:

That sun which bids their diamond blaze,

To deck our lily deigns.

Long had she fir'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 that knew no 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 lodg'd a wish
Which virtue keeps conceal'd.

What happy hours of heart-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 rock

From whence his riches grew.

152

[MALLET

EDWIN AND EMMA.

Long had he seen their mutual flame,

And seen it long unmov'd:
Then, with a father's frown, at last
He sternly disapprov'd.

In Edwin's gentle heart a war
Of diff'ring passions strove:
His heart, which durst not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.

Deny'd 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 wint'ry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade,

In sighs to pour his soften'd soul,
The midnight mourner stray'd.

His cheeks, where love 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 weary'd Heav'n with fruitless pray'rs, And fruitless sorrow shed.

'Tis past, he cry'd-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:
First-falling o'er the primrose pale,
So morning dews appear.

Now homeward as she hopeless went,

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