"Henry," she said, "by thy dear form subdued,

See the sad relics of a nymph undone ! I find, I find this rising sob renew'd:

I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun.

Amid the dreary gloom of night I cry,

When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return?

Yet what can morn's returning ray supply,

But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn !

Alas! no more that joyous morn appears
That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame;
For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,
And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.

The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,
The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan;
All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain,
And talk of truth and innocence alone.

If through the garden's flowery tribes I stray, Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say,

For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.

Ye flowers that well reproach a nymph so frail;
Say, could ye with my virgin fame compare?
The brightest bud that scents the vernal gale

Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair.

Now the

grave old alarm the gentler young; And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee; Trembles each lip, and faulters every tongue,

That bids the morn propitious smile on me.

Thus for your sake I shun each human eye;
I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu;
To die I languish, but I dread to die,

Lest my sad fate should nourish pangs for you.

Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove,
And let me silent seek some friendly shore;
There only, banish'd from the form I love,
My weeping virtue shall relapse no more.

Be but

my friend; I ask no dearer name;

Be such the meed of some more artful fair; Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame, That pity gave, what love refus'd to share.

Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread;
Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew;
Not such the parent's board at which I fed!
Not such the precepts from his lips I drew!

Haply, when age has silver'd o'er my hair,

Malice may learn to scorn so mean a spoil; Envy may slight a face no longer fair;

And pity welcome to my native soil."

She spoke nor was I born of savage race;

Nor could these hands a niggard boon assign; Grateful she clasp'd me in a last embrace,

And vow'd to waste her life in pray'rs for mine.

I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend;

I saw her breast with every passion heave; I left her-torn from every earthly friend; Oh! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave!

Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose ;
The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain;
O'er the tall mast the circling surges close;
My Jessy-floats upon the watery plain!

And see my youth's impetuous fires decay;
Seek not to stop reflection's bitter tear;
But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay,
From Jessy floating on her watery bier!

FROM RURAL ELEGANCE.

AN ODE TO THE LATE DUCHESS OF SOMERSET.

WHILE orient skies restore the day,
And dew-drops catch the lucid ray;
Amid the sprightly scenes of morn,
Will aught the Muse inspire!
Oh! peace to yonder clamorous horn
That drowns the sacred lyre!

Ye rural thanes that o'er the mossy down

Some panting, timorous hare pursue;

Does nature mean your joys alone to crown?) Say, does she smooth her lawns for you?

For you

does echo bid the rocks reply,

And, urg'd by rude constraint, resound the jovial : cry?

See from the neighbouring hill, forlorn,
The wretched swain your sport survey;
He finds his faithful fences torn,

He finds his labour'd crops a prey;
He sees his flock-no more in circles feed;
Haply beneath your ravage bleed,

And with no random curses loads the deed.

Nor yet, ye swains, conclude,

That nature smiles for you

alone;

Your bounded souls, and your conceptions crude,

The proud, the selfish boast disown:

Yours be the produce of the soil:
O may it still reward your toil!

Nor ever the defenceless train

Of clinging infants ask support in vain ?

But though the various harvest gild your plains, Does the mere landscape feast your eye?

Or the warm hope of distant gains

Far other cause of glee supply?
Is not the red-streak's future juice
The source of your delight profound,

Where Ariconium pours her gems profuse,
Purpling a whole horizon round?

Athirst ye praise the limpid stream, 'tis true:
But though, the pebbled shores among,
It mimic no unpleasing song,

The limpid fountain murmurs not for you.

Unpleas'd ye see the thickets bloom, Unpleas'd the spring her flowery robe resume; Unmov'd the mountain's airy pile,

The dappled mead without a smile.

O let a rural conscious Muse,

For well she knows, your froward sense accuse : Forth to the solemn oak you bring the square, And span the massy trunk, before

you cry, 'tis fair.

Nor yet, ye learn'd, nor yet ye courtly train,
If haply from your haunts ye stray
To waste with us a summer's day,
Exclude the taste of every swain,
Nor our untutor'd sense disdain :
'Tis nature only gives exclusive right
To relish her supreme delight;

She, where she pleases kind or coy,
Who furnishes the scene and forms us to enjoy.

Then hither bring the fair ingenuous mind,
By her auspicicious aid refin'd;

Lo! not an hedge-row hawthorn blows,
Or humble hare-bell paints the plain,
Or valley winds, or fountain flows,