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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, with fruitless vows,
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,
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
every bush his hovering shade,
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 mother'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 died.
BY MISS CARTER.
THE midnight moon serenely smiles
Now ev'ry passion sinks to rest,
In silence hush'd, to Reason's voice
Come; while the peaceful scene invites,
Let's search this ample round; Where shall the lovely fleeting form Of Happiness be found?
Does it amidst the frolic mirth
Of gay assemblies dwell?
How oft the laughing brow of joy
And through the cloister's deep recess
In vain through beauty, fortune, wit,
The fugitive we trace;
It dwells not in the faithless smile
Perhaps the joy to these deny'd,
Howe'er our varying notions rove,
Yet all agree in one,
To place its being in some state
O blind to each indulgent aim
Vain are alike the joys we seek,
The passions into peace.
To temper'd wishes, just desires,
And, deaf to Folly's call, attends
WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT
BY THE SAME.
LET coward Guilt, with pallid Fear,
And justly dread the vengeful fate
Protected by that Hand, whose law
In the thick cloud's tremendous gloom The lightning's lurid glare,
It views the same all-gracious Power
That breathes the vernal air.