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A pleasure incomplete: For with the charm
The gallant Oscar so beguiled the hour,
That leaden Apathy itself would ne'er
With palpitating heart, and gen'rous swell,
Erina showed the fondly nourished flame
Thrice happy pair! your pure unsullied joys, Recal to mind that richly luscious hour, When, first, in paradise young Adam prest The balmy lips of Eve, and raptured hung Upon those swelling charms, that asked for more
Than admiration, or the frigid gaze
Of mere Platonick love.-Sweet hour was this!
For hell-born vice, with serpent crest, had yet
Unvisited the fair abodes of peace,
And love and innocence, throughout the scene,
Maintained unbroken sway. Sweet hour was this ! By far the happiest ever spent on earth! Enjoyment, pure and keen as this, would
pay An age of bye-gone toil, and recompense
A lifetime of solicitude and care.
Soon as appeared the shadowy form of eve; And died along the west the golden day,
What time resounds the peasant's voice, no more,
Upon the furrowed hill, and nought of noise,
ear, save when
The watch-dog, from the distant hamlet, howls,
Or from the moss-clad ruin cheerless booms
The solitary owl at this lone hour,
When weary hinds to quietude retire,
And labour seeks repose, Erina loved
To leave the noise of vulgar revelry,
Or idle glee, and in the woodland shade,
Sweet Sotitude within her own retreats.
Oh! what a luxury ineffable,
The feeling mind, by lib'ral science stord,
Afford a rich repast to feed the soul,
Compared with these, what are the charms of sense, *
Nor was Erina wanting in the sweets. Of mental excellence, without the gift
Or exercise of which, external charms
Will lose the power to please, and woman's claim,
To gain an admiration firm and pure,
Were void, and but a perishable name.
To cultivate the soul, and give her mind
Its treasured hoards, was once beloved sire !
(Ere doomed the victim of insatiate war
To slumber in an early tomb) thy fond,
Thy constant care; nor did Erina prove
By her were prized fair Science, and whate'er
By her were plucked the richest flowers of taste,
Luxuriant grows, the magic power of song,
The fascination of the muse, the strain
Of minstrelsy, the music of the lyre.
Time was, my country, when thy blooming maids, Like sweet Erina, near some sacred stream, Where fairy elfins lead their light-heeled dance; Or underneath the venerable oak,
Would wake the soul of music from the lyre,
And teach even Echo to repeat the tones