In Edwin's gentle heart, a war

Of differing passions strove: His heart, that 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 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 witb fruitless vows,

And fruitless sorrows shed.

'Tis past! he cry'd—but if your souls Sweet mercy

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 murning 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 inother's door-
He's gone! she cry'd; 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 dy'd.

A WINTER'S DAY.

WRITTEN IN A STATE OF MELANCHOLX.

Now, gloomy soul! look out—now comes thy turn;
With thee, behold all ravag'd nature mourn.
Hail the dim empire of thy darling night,
That spreads, slow-shadowing, o'er the vanquish'd light.
Look out, with joy; the ruler of the day,
Faint, as thy hopes, emits a glimmering ray:
Already exil'd to the utmost sky,
Hither, oblique, he turn’d his clouded eye.
Lo! from the limits of the wintery pole,
Mountainous clouds, in rude confusion, foll:
In dismal pomp, now hovering on their way,
To a sick twilight, they reduce the day.
And hark ! imprison'd winds, broke loose, arise,
And roar their haughty triumph through the skies.

While the driven clouds, o'ercharg'd with floods of rain,
And mingled lightning, burst upon the plain,
Now see sad earth-like thine, her alter'd state,
Like thee, she mourns her sad reverse of fate!
Her smile, her wanton looks—where are they now?
Faded her face, and wrapt in clouds her brow!
No

more, th' ungrateful verdure of the plain;
No more, the wealth-crown'd labours of the swain ;
These scenes of bliss, no more upbraid my fate,
Torture my pining thought, and rouse my hate.
The leaf-clad forest, and the tufted grove,
Erewhile the safe retreats of happy love,
Stript of their honours, naked, now appear;
This is—my soull the winter of their year!
The little, noisy songsters of the wing,
All, shivering on the bough, forget to sing.
Hail! reverend Silence! with thy awful brow!
Be Music's voice, for ever mutemas now:
Let no intrusive joy my

dead

repose Disturb:

:--no pleasure disconcert my woes. In this moss-cover'd cavern, hopeless laid, On the cold cliff, I'll lean my aching head; And pleas'd with Winter's waste, unpitying, see All nature in an agony with me! Rough rugged rocks, wet marshes, ruin'd towers, Bare trees, brown brakes, bleak heaths, and rushy

moors, Dead floods, huge cataracts, to my pleas'd eyes (Now I can smile!)-in wild disorder rise: And now,

the various dreadfulness combin'd, Black melancholy comes, to doze my mind. See! Night's wish'd shades rise, spreading through

the air,
And the lone, hollow gloom, for me prepare!
Hail! solitary ruler of the grave!
Parent of terrors ! from thy dreary cave!
Let thy dumb silence midnight all the ground,
And spread a welcome horror wide around.
But hark! a sudden howl invades my ear!
The phantoms of the dreadful hour are near.
Shadows from each dark cavern, now combine,
And stalk around, and mix their yells with mine.
VOL. IV.

K.

Stop, flying Timel repose thy restless wing; Fix here--nor hasten to restore the spring: Fix'd

my

ill fate, so fix'd let winter beLet never wanton season laugh at me!

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 the 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 dy'd before her time.

Awake! she cry'd, 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 ?

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 filed.
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 dy'd for love of you,
The lark sung loud; the morning smil'd,
With beams of

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

red :