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It comes: it fills my lab'ring breast,
I feel my beating heart opprest.
Oh! hear that lonely widow's wail!
See her dim eye; her aspect pale!
To Heav'n she turns in deep despair;
: Her infants wonder at her pray'r,
And, mingling tears they know not why,
Lift up their little hands, and cry.
O Lord! their moving sorrows see!
Support them, sweet Humanity!

Life, fill'd with grief's distressful train,
For ever asks the tear humane.
Behold in yon unconcious grove
The victims of ill-fated love! ·
Heard you that agonizing throe?
Sure this is not romantic wo!
The golden day of joy is o'er;

And now they part-to meet no more,

Assist them, hearts from anguish free!
Assist them, sweet Humanity!

Parent of virtue, if thine ear

Attend not now to sorrow's cry;

If now the pity-streaming tear

Should haply on thy cheek be dry, Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity!

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Dark gathering clouds involve the threatening skies,

The sea heaves conscious of the impending


Deep, hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise; They come the Spirits of the Tempest come!

Oh! may such terrors mark the approaching night.

As reign'd on that these streaming eyes deplore! Flash, ye red fires of heaven, with fatal light, • And with conflicting winds, ye waters roar !

• Loud and more loud, ye foaming billows! burst!
Ye warring elements, more fiercely rave!
Till the wide waves o'erwhelm the spot accurst,
Where ruthless Avarice finds a quiet grave!"

Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks, and streaming hair,

While shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech,

A wretched maid—the victim of despair,

Survey'd the threatening storm and desart beech:

Then to the tomb where now the father slept Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow, Frantic she turn'd-and beat her breast and


Invoking vengeance on the dust below.

• Lo! rising there above each lumber heap, Yon cypher'd stones his name and wealth relate, • Who gave his son-remorseless to the deep, While I, his living victim, curse my fate.

Oh! my lost love! no tomb is plac'd for thee, • That may to strangers eyes thy worth impart 3 • Thou hast no grave, but in the stormy sea, And no memorial but this breaking heart.

Forth to the world, a widow'd wanderer driven, I pour to winds and waves the unheeded tear, · Try with vain effort to submit to heaven,

And fruitless call on him-" who cannot hear."

Oh! might I fondly clasp him once again, While o'er my head the infuriate billows pour, Forget in death this agonizing pain,

And feel his father's cruelty no more!

• Part, raging waters part, and shew beneath,
In your dread cayes, his pale and mangled form; ›
Now, while the demons of despair and death
Ride on the blast, and urge the howling story

'Lo! by the lightning's momentary blaze, I see him rise the whitening waves above,

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No longer such as when in happier days

'He gave the enchanted hours-to me and love.

Such, as when daring the enchafed sea, · And courting dangerous toil, he often said, That every peril, one soft smile from me, 'One sigh of speechless tenderness o'erpaid.

But dead, disfigur'd, while between the roar
Of the loud waves his accents pierce mine ear,
And seem to say,Ah! wretch, delay no more,
But come, unhappy mourner-meet me here.

Yet, powerful fancy, bid the phantom stay, 'Still let me hear him!-'Tis already past; Along the waves his shadow glides away, 'I loose his voice amid the deaf'ning blast.

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Ah! wild illusion, born of frantic pain!

•He hears not, comes not from his watery bed;

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My tears, my anguish, my despair are vain,
The insatiate ocean gives not up its dead.

'Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll; Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail; Approach, ye horrors that delight my soul, Despair, and Death, and Desolation, hail!"

The ocean hears The embodied waters come
Rise o'er the land, and with resistless sweep,
Tear from its base the proud aggressor's tomb,
And bear the injur'd to eternal sleep!


Lie lightly on her bosom gentle earth!

For poor

Amelia's bosom was the seat

Of maiden purity, and once it beat

With nature's best affections; but her worth
Bloom'd like the desert flower. Hard Poverty
His heavy hand upon her race had laid,

No friend, no dear congenial soul had she,
Her cold, coarse comrades drove the wretched


To lonely thought. The feelings that had blest A fellow heart, imprison'd in her breast,

Were tortures there, and on her life they prey'd, Poor victim of misfortune from her birth. She pin'd away and died, and is at rest,

Lie gently on her bosom, gentle earth!

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