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No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
Received the harmless pair.
To take their ev'ning rest,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;
And gayly press'd and smiled; And, skilled in legendary lore,
The ling’ring hours beguiled.
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The crackling fagot flies.
To sooth the stranger's wo;
And tears began to flow.
With answering care oppress'd: “ And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried,
“The sorrows of thy breast?
Reluctant dost thou rove;
Or unregarded love ?
Are trifling, and decay;
More trifling still than they.
A charm that lulls to sleep;
And leaves the wretch to weep?
“ And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest: On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest. “For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows lush,
And spurn the sex,” he said; But, while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Swift mantling to the view,
As bright, as transient too.
Alternate spread alarms :
A maid in all her charms.
A wretch forlorn,” she cried ;
Where Heav'n and you reside; “But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray ;
Companion of her way.
A wealthy lord was he ;
He had but only me.
Unnumber'd suiters came;
And felt or feign’d a flame.
With richest proffers strove; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.
“ In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor pow'r had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
“ The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of Heav'n refined, Could naught of purity display
To emulate his mind.
“ The dew, the blossoms of the tree,
With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, but, wo to me,
Their constancy was mine!
“For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain. « Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride, And sought a solitude forlorn
In secret, where he died.
“ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay ; I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay. “And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die ; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."
“ Forbid it, Heaven !" the hermit cried,
And clasp'd her to his breast, The wondering fair one türn'd to chide'Twas Edwin's self that press’d.
Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Restored to love and thee.
And every care resign:
My life—my all that's mine ?
We'll live and love so true,
Shall break thy Edwin's too."
STANZAS ON WOMAN.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds, too late, that men betray, What charm can sooth her melancholy !
What art can wash her guilt away? The only art, her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is—to die.
The wretch condemn'd with life to part
Still, still on hope relies;
Bids expectation rise.
Adorns and cheers the way,
Emits a brighter ray.