And something left for melting Charity;

Tho' lux'ry loaded not their frugal board,

Content and polish'd manners round it smil'd:
And smil'd the Muses too on WILLIAM's birth,
Hyblean honey touch'd his infant lips

And lisping numbers flow'd of poesy sweet:

For he was skill'd to touch the warbling lyre,
And oft to MARY's chasten'd ear he pour'd
The lay of love-the listening blushing Maid,
With no false shame, the soft confession heard;
For she, with thoughts as pure as angels know,
Return'd the warm effusions of his heart.

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An orphan child was she, and the same hands That sow'd with virtues bland their WILLIAM's mind,

Foster'd with pious care her tender years.

In the same cradle rock'd, the infant pair Together grew; the same their playful sports; Their wishes, their affections were the same: As tho' one kindred soul inspir'd them both.

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He felt the wish for wealth-but not the thirst;

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His parents' eve of life he hop❜d to cheer,

To be the prop round which their age might twine: "And MARY, too"-he often sighing said,

"I would transplant thee to a kindlier soil;

"Oh! is it fit that beauty fair as thine,

"And virtue, such as might amend a world,

"Should waste their sweetness in the secret shade."

Perhaps Ambition touch'd his youthful heart;.
And conscious worth, from vanity distinct

As day from night-might whisper in his ear
That he was form'd in higher sphere to shine,
Than in the humbler walks of rural life.

His peaceful home he left for Indian climes;

To earn a competence was all his wish;

But firm resolving in his manly mind,

Rather in poverty to seek his home,

Than stain his hands with base extortion:

"The brighest gem Golconda e'er produc'd,

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"By the hard hand of bloody Rapine grasp❜d,

"Contracts a stain as foul as hell itself!

"Which art can ne'er remove or foil disguise:

"Far! far from me such wealth"-he oft would say,

"For not, O MARY! ev'n thy bosom soft

"Could lull to sweet repose the guilty soul."

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But tho' imagination may conceive,

No words can paint, alas! the parting pangs

Those faithful lovers felt-and only those

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Can feel, whose hearts are touch'd with love like theirs.

To the high beacon hill she clim'd, and view'd

The lessening bark that bore him far away,

Till hazy distance and her tearful eye

Denied all further sight-then homeward trod,

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With heavy heart, her melancholy way,
Sought her sad lonely couch and wept 'till morn.

And oft for seven long years she climb❜d the hill, Mark'd on th' horizon's verge with many a sigh, The spot where last his fading sail she view'd:

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Or watch'd the barks that homeward steer'd their course Which HOPE oft whisper'd, might some letter bear From WILLIAM's hand-nor all delusive prov'd,

For oft his well-known seal (two billing doves)

Receiv'd, unconscious of the bliss, from lips,
Whose freshness made the vermeil wax look pale,
The pure
and fervid kiss of faithful love.

At length the tidings came that toward home

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He soon would bend his course; if not with wealth 100

C