"And ah! forgive a stranger rude,

"A wretch forlorn," she cry'd; "Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude "Where Heav'n and you reside.

"But let a maid thy pity share, "Whom love has taught to stray: "Who seeks for rest, but finds Despair "Companion of her way.

"My father liv'd beside the Tyne,

"A wealthy lord was he;

"And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, "He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms

"Unnumber'd suitors came;

"Who prais'd me for imputed charms, "And felt, or feign'd a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd

"With richest proffers strove; "Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd"But never talk'd of love.

"In humble simplest habit clad,
"No wealth nor power had he;
"Wisdom and worth were all he had,
"But these were all to me.

"And when, beside me in the dale, "He carol'd lays of love,

"His breath lent fragrance to the gale "And music to the grove.

"The blossom opening to the day,
"The dews of Heav'n refin'd,
"Could nought of purity display
"To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossom on the tree,

"With charms inconstant shine; "Their charms were his, but wo to me, "Their constancy was mine.

"For still I try'd each fickle art,

"Importunate and vain;

"And while his passion touch'd my heart, "I triumph'd in his pain.

"Till quite dejected with my scorn,

"He left me to my pride;

"And sought a solitude forlorn,

"In secret, where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, "And well my life shall pay;

"I'll seek the solitude he sought,

"And stretch me where he lay..
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"And there forlorn despairing hid,

"I'll lay me down and die; ""Twas so for me that Edwin did, "And so for him will I."

"Forbid it Heav'n!" the Hermit cry'd, And clasp'd her to his breast:

The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide,"Twas Edwin's self that prest.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

"My charmer, turn to see

"Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, "Restor❜d to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart, "And every care resign:

"And shall we never, never part, "My life my all that's mine?

"No never from this hour to part, "We'll live and love so true;

"The sigh that rends thy constant heart, "Shall break thy Edwin's too."

ELEGY,

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain,
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense breathing morn,
The swallow, twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure : Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await, alike, the inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead-but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these a fault,
If mem❜ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can story'd urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?