Great Source of day, best image here below, From world to world, the vital ocean round, The listening shades, and teach the Night His praise. For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray Be my tongue mute, my Fancy paint no more, Should Fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song, where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th' Atlantic isles, 'tis nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste, as in the city full! And where he vital breathes there must be joy. Myself in Him, in Light Ineffable; Come then, expressive Silence! muse his praise. EDWIN AND EMMA. BY DAVID MALLET, ESQ., Mark it, Cesario, it is true and plain. The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chaunt it. It is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age. Shakespear's Twelfth Night. FAR in the windings of a vale, Fast by a sheltering wood, The safe retreat of Health and Peace A humble cottage stood. 2. There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair, Beneath a mother's eye, Whose only wish on earth was now To see her blest, and die. 3 The softest blush that Nature spreads Gave colour to her cheek: Such orient colour smiles through heaven, When vernal mornings break. 4. Nor let the pride of great ones scorn This charmer of the plains: That sun, who bids their diamond blaze, D 5. Long had she fill'd each youth with love, Each maiden with despair; And though by all a wonder own'd, Yet knew not she was fair, 6. Till Edwin came, the pride of swains, A soul devoid of art; And from whose eye, serenely mild, 7. A mutual flame was quickly caught; That virtue keeps conceal'd. 8. What happy hours of home-felt bliss Did love on both bestow! But bliss too mighty long to last, 9. His sister, who, like Envy form'd, Like her in mischief joy'd, To work them harm, with wicked skill, Each darker art employ'd. 10. The father too, a sordid man, Who love nor pity knew, Was all unfeeling as the clod From whence his riches grew. 11. Long had he seen their secret flame, Had sternly disapprov'd. 12. In Edwin's gentle heart, a war 13. Deny'd her sight, he oft behind The spreading hawthorn crept, To snatch a glance, to mark the spot Where Emma walk'd and wept. 14. Oft, too, on Stanmore's wintry waste, Beneath the moonlight shade, In sighs to pour his soften'd soul, The midnight mourner stray'd. |