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With goodness large and sree,
Delights the widow's tears to stay,
To teach the blind their smoothest was,

And aid the seeble knee.

G come ! and o'er my bosom reign,
Expand my heart, inflame each vein.

Through ev'ry action shine;
Each low, each selsish with controul;
With all thy essence warm my soul,

And make me wholly thine.

Is srom thy sacred paths I turn,

Nor seel their griess, while others mourn,

Nor with their pleasures glow: Banish'd srom Cod, srom bliss, and thee, My own tormentor let me be,

And groan in hopeless woe.




See on those ruby- Tips the trembling breath*
'i hose cheels now faded at the blast os death;
Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,
And those love-darting eyes fliall roll nexnere. Pose.

N ow purple ev'ning ting'd the blue serene,,
And milder breezes sann'd the verdant plain;
Beneath a blasted oak's portentous shade,
To speak his gries, a pensive swain was laid:
Birds ceas'd to warble at the mournsul sound;
The cheersul landscape sadden'd all around: '.
Tor Stella's sate he breath'd his tunesul moan; '.
Love, beauty, virtue, i»ourn your, darling gone!

O thou ! by stronger ties than blood ally'd,
Who died to pleasure, when a sister* dy'd!
Thou living image os those charms we lost,
Charms, which exulting nature once might boast!
Indulge the plaintive muse, whose simple strain
Repeats the heart-selt angujsh os the swain:
For Stella's sate thus flow'd his tunesul moan;
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!

* A Lady distinguilhed sor every personal grace, aad qualification os mind which could adorn her lex and natui e.

Are happiness and joy sor ever fled,
Nor haunt the twilight grove, nor sunny glade?
Ah! fled sor ever srom my longing eye;
With Stella born, with Stella too they die:
Die, or with me your brightest image moan:
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!

Sweet to the thirsty tongue the crystal stream,
To nightly wand'rers sweet the morning beam;
Sweet to the wither'd grass the gentle show'r;
To the sond lover sweet the nuptial hour;
Sweet sragrant gardens to the lab'ring bee,
And lovely Stella once was heav'n to me:
That heav'n is saded, and those joys are flown,
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!

Ah! where is now that sorm which charm'd mysight?
Ah! where that wisdom, sparkling heav'nly bright?
Ah! where that sweetness like the lays os spring,
When breathe its fiow'rs, and all its warblers sing?
Now sade, ye flow'rs! ye warblers join my moan!
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!

Ah me! though winter desolate the sield,
Again shall flow'rs their blended odours yield;
Again mail birds the vernal season hail,
And beauty paint, and music charm the vale:

But she no mere to bless me shall appear;
No more her angel voice enchant my ear;
No more her angel smile relieve my moan:
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!

He ceas'd; sor mighty gries his voice suppress,
Chill'd all his veins, and struggled in his breast;
From his wan cheek the rosy tincture slies;
The lustre languish'd in his closing eyes:
Too soon shall lise return, unhappy swain!
Is, with returning sense, returns thy pain. [moan!
Kills, woods, and streams, resound the shepherd's
Love, beauty, virtue, mourn your darling gone!


If e'er sharp sorrow srom thine eyes did slow,
Is e'er thy bosom selt another's woe,
Is e'er sair beauty's charms thy heart did prove,
Is e'er the ossspring os thy virtuous love
Bloom'd to thy wish, or to thy soul was dear,
This plaintive marble asks thee sor a tear!
For here, alas! too early snatch'd away,
All that was lovely Death has made his prey.
No more her cheeks with crimson roses vie,
No more the diamond sparkles in her eye;

ller breath no more its balmy sweets can boast,
Alas!' that breath with all its sweets are lost.
Pale now those lips where blushing rubies hung,
And mute the charming music of her tongue;
Ye virgins sair, your sading charms survey,
She was whate'er your tender hearts can say.
To her sweet memory sor ever dear,
Let the green turs receive your trickling, tear:
To this sad place your earliest garlands bring,
And deck her grave with sirstlings os the spring.
Let opening roses, drooping lilies tell,
Like those she bkiom'd,,and ah! like these she selL
In circling wreaths let the pale ivy grow,
And distant yews a sable shade bestow;
Round her, ye Graces! constant vigils keep,
And guard, sair Innocence! her sacred fleep:
Till that bright morn shall wake the beauteous clay, .
To bloonv and sparkle in eternal day.

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