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• 'Twould put your mind into a rage,
· Suits not my regal duty !
• Such is the lot of Beauty!'
This said, he darted o'er the plain,
No glimpse of him I find;
Imprinted on my mind. ·
SWEET Bird! that kindly perching near,
Thanks for thy sorrow-soothing strain :-
Else why so feelingly complain,
That oft enamour'd on thy strains has hung ?
In all the pride of youthful charms,
And fill my doting eyes with frequent tears,
The flattering prop of my declining years ! In vain from death to rescue I essay'd,
By every art that Science could devise, Alas! it languish'd for a mother's aid,
And wing'd its flight to seek her in the skies
At evening's peaceful hour,
And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bower.
But why alas! to thee complain?
The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring
Again shall flow thy notes responsive to thy love. But, oh! for me in vain may seasons roll,
Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears, Deploring still the comfort of my soul,
I count my sorrows by increasing years.
Tell me, thou Syren Hope, deceiver, say,
Where is the promis'd period of my woes ? Full three long lingering years have roll'd away,
And yet I weep, a stranger to repose :
O what delusion did thy tongue employ! * That Emma's fatal pledge of love,
Her last bequest--with all a mother's care, The bitterness of sorrow should remove, Soften the horrors of despair,
And cheer a heart long lost to joy!'
Gazing enraptur'd on its angel face,
And burn with all a father's fond alarms !
How did I rave of blessings yet in store !
Nor my full heart could bear, nor tongue could utter
Just Heaven ! I cried, with recent hopes elate,
• Yet I will live-will live, though Emma's dead So long bow'd down beneath the storms of Fate,
Yet will I raise my wo-dejected head!
Will want a father's care,
And for her sake the ills of life I'll bear :
Complaint the only bliss my soul can know, From me, my child shall learn the mournful strain, And prattle tales of wo;
And O in that auspicious hour, When Fate resigns her persecuting pow'r, With duteous zeal her hand shah close,
No more to weep-my sorrow-streaming eyes, When death gives misery repose,
And opes à glorious passage to the skies.'
Vain thought! it must not be—She too is dead
The flattering scene is o'er-
And vengeance can no more-
And none—none left to bear a friendly part !
Or sooth the anguish of an aching heart! Now all one gloomy scene, till welcome Death,
With lenient band (0 falsely deem'd severe) Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath,
And dry up every tear :
But ah! from my affections far remov'd !
As if, unconscious of poetic fire,
Yet—while this weary life shall last,
While yet my tongue can form th' impassion'd strain,
For O how grateful to a wounded heart,