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"Nought pure or perfect here is found;
"But, when this night is o'er,
"Th' eternal morn will spring on high,
And we shall weep no more.

" Beyond the dim horizon far,
"That bounds the mortal eye,
" A better country blooms to view,
" Beneath a brighter sky."-

Unseen the trembling Virgin heard

The Stranger's tale of woe;

Then enter'd, as an angel bright,
In beauty's highest glow.

The stranger rose, he look'd, he gazed,

He stood a statue pale;

His heart did throb, his cheek did change,
His faultering voice did fail.

At

At last, "My Emily herself

"Alive in all her charms!"

The father kneel'd; the lovers rush'd
To one another's arms.

In speechless ecstasy entranced

Long while they did remain;

They glow'd, they trembled, and they fobb'd,

They wept and wept again.

The father lifted up his hands,

To bless the happy pair;

Heaven smiled on Edward the beloved,

And Emily the fair.

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MONIMIA.

AN ODE.

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N weeds

of forrow wildly 'dight,

Alone beneath the gloom of night,

Monimia went to mourn;

She left a mother's fond alarms;

She left a father's folding arms;

Ah! never to return!

The bell had ftruck the midnight hour,

Disastrous planets now had power,

And evil spirits reign'd;

The lone owl, from the cloistered ifle,

O'er falling fragments of the pile,

Ill-boding prophet plain'd.

I

While

While down her devious footsteps stray,

She tore the willows by the way,

And gazed upon the wave;

Then raising wild to Heaven her eyes,

With fobs, and broken accent, cries,

"I'll meet thee in the grave."

Bright o'er the border of the stream,
Illumined by a tranfient beam,

She knew the wonted grove;
Her lover's hand had deck'd it fine,
And roses mix'd with myrtles twine,

To form the bower of love.

The tuneful Philomela rose,

And sweetly-mournful fung her woes,
Enamour'd of the tree;
Touch'd with the melody of woe,
More tender tears began to flow.

"She mourns her mate like me."

" I loved

" I loved my lover from a child,

" And sweet the youthful cherub smiled,

" And wanton'd o'er the green ;

" He train'd my Nightingale to fing,

" He spoil'd the gardens of the Spring,

"To crown me rural Queen.

" My brother died before his day;

" Sad, thro' the church-yard's dreary way,

"We wont to walk at eve;

" And bending o'er th' untimely urn,

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Long at the monument to mourn,

" And look upon his grave.

" Like forms funereal while we stand,
" In tender mood he held my hand,
"And laid his cheek to mine;
" My bosom beat unknown alarms,
"We wept in one another's arms,
" And mingled tears divine.

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