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And cold and

weary

lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.

But hark! the cock has warned me hence;

A long and last adieu!

Come false see,

man,

how low she lies,

Who died for love of you."

The lark sung loud; the morning smiled
With beams of rosy red;

Pale William quaked in every limb,

And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place,
Where Margaret's body lay;

And stretched him on the green grass turf,
That wrapt her breathless clay.

And thrice he called on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spake never more.

2. EDWIN AND EMMA.

Far in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of Health and Peace,
A humble cottage stood.

There beauteous Emma flourished fair,
Beneath a mother's eye:

Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her blest, and die.

The softest blush that nature spreads
Gave colour to her cheek;

Such orient colour smiles through heaven,

When vernal mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
This charmer of the plains:

That sun who bids their diamonds blaze,
To paint our lily deigns.

Long had she fill'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair;

1

And though by all a wonder owned,
Yet knew not she was fair:

Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A soul devoid of art,

And from whose eyes serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught;
Was quickly too revealed:
For neither bosom lodged a wish
That virtue keeps concealed.
What happy hours of heart-felt bliss
Did love on both bestow!
But bliss too mighty long to last,
Where fortune proves a foe.
His sister, who, like Envy formed,
Like her in mischief joyed,
To work them harm, with wicked skill,
Each darker art employed.

The father too, a sordid man,
Who love nor pity knew,
Was all-unfeeling as the clod

From which his riches grew.

Long had he seen their secret flame,
And seen it long unmoved:
Then, with a father's frown, at last
Had sternly disapproved.

In Edwin's gentle heart a war
Of differing passions strove;
His heart, that durst not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.

Denied her sight, he oft behind
The spreading hawthorn crept,
To snatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walked and wept.

Oft, too, on Stanmore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade

In sighs to pour

his softened soul,

The midnight mourner strayed.

His cheek, where health with beauty glowed,

A deadly pale o'ercast :

So fades the fresh rose in its prime,

Before the northern blast.

The parents now with late remorse,

Hung o'er his dying bed;

And wearied heaven with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrow shed.

""Tis past!" he cried, "but if

your souls

Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold,
What they must ever love!"

She came; his cold hand softly touched,
And bathed with many a tear :
Fast falling o'er the primrose pale
So morning dews appear.

But, oh! his sister's jealous care,

A cruel sister she,

Forbade what Emma came to say ;

"My Edwin, live for me!"

Now homeward as she hopeless wept
The church-yard path along;

The blast blew cold, the dark owl screamed
Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found

In every bush his hovering shade,

His groan in every sound.

Alone, appalled, thus had she passed

The visionary vale,

When, lo! the death-bell smote her ear

Sad sounding in the gale!

Just then she reached with trembling step Her aged mother's door

"He's gone!" she cried; "and I shall see
That angel form no more.

"I feel, I feel this breaking heart

Beat high against my side-"

From her white arm down sunk her head;
She shivering sighed, and died.

CXLVIII. THOMAS MOSS.

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless

your store.
These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years!
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel of a flood of tears.
Yon house erected on a rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.
Oh! take me to your hospitable room;

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor, and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of ev'ry grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears in pity could not be represt.

Heaven sends misfortunes: why should we repine? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see,

And your condition may be soon like mine,

The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot;

Then like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn: