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Oh whither, she cried, hast thou wander'd, my lover ;

Or here dost thou welter, and bleed on the shore ? What voice did I hear ? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd !

All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried,

By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar! From his bosom that heav'd, the last torrent was streaming,

And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar; And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,

That melted in love, and that kindled in war!

How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!

How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war ! Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night,

To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar ! Thou shalt live, she replied, heav'n's mercy relieving

Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn! Ah, no! the last pang in my bosom is heaving !

No light of the morn shall to Henry return!

Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true :

Ye babes of my love that await me afar!
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,

When he sunk in her arms-the poor wounded Hussar!

Extracts from Thomson's Seasons,

SPRING.

But happy they ! the happiest of their kind!
Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate
Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend."
'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws,
Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind,
That binds their peace, but harmony itself,
Attuning all their passions into love;
Where friendship full exerts her softest power,
Perfect esteem enlivened by desire
Ineffable, and sympathy of soul ;
Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will,
With boundless confidence : For nought but love

Can answer love, and render bliss secure.
Let him, ungenerous, who, alone intent
To bliss himself, from sordid parents buys.
The loathing virgin, in eternal care,
Well-merited, consume his nights and days:
Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love
Is wild desire, fierce as the suns they feel ;
Let eastern tyrants, from the light of Heaven
Seclude their bosom slaves, meanly possess’d
Of a mere, lifeless, violated form:
While those whom love cements in holy faith,
And equal transport, free as nature live,
Disdaining fear. What is the world to them,
Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all !
Who in each other clasp whatever fair
High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish :
Something than beauty dearer, should they look
Or on the mind, or mind illumin'd face;
Truth, goodness, honour, harmony and love,
The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven.
Mean time a smiling offspring rises round,
And mingles both their graces. By degrees,
The human blossom blows; and every day,
Soft as it rolls along, shews some new charm,
The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom.
The infant reason grows apace, and calls
For the kind hand of an assiduous care.
Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought,
To teach the

young

idea how to shoot, To

pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to fix The generous purpose in the glowing breast. Oh speak the joy! ye, whom the sudden tear Surprises often while you look around, And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss, All various nature pressing on the heart: An elegant sufficiency, content, Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, Ease and alternate labour, useful life, Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven. These are the matchless joys of virtuous love ; And thus their moments fly. The seasons thus, As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, Still find them happy; and consenting Spring Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads ;

Till evening comes at last, serene and mild :
When after the long vernal day of life,
Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells
With many a proof of recollected love,
Together down they sink in social sleep ;
Together freed, their gentle spirits fly
To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.,

SUMMER.

Young Celadon
And his Amelia were a matchless pair ;
With equal virtue form’d, and equal grace,
The same, distinguish'd by their sex alone :
Her's the mild lustre of the blooming morn,
And his the radiance of the risen day.

They lov'd : but such their guileless passion was,
As in the dawn of time inform'd the heart
Of innocence, and undissembling truth.
'Twas friendship heightend by the mutual wish,
Th’inchanting hope, and sympathetic glow,
Beam'd from the mutual eye. Devoting all
To love, each was to each a dearer self;
Supremely happy in th' awaken'd power
Of giving joy. Alone, amid the shades,
Still in harmonious intercourse they liv'd
The rural day, and talk'd the flowing heart,
Or sigh’d and look'd unutterable things.
So pass'd their life, a clear united stream,
By care unruffled; till, in evil hour,
The tempest caught them on the tender walk,
Heedless how far, and where its mazes stray'd,
While, with each other bless’d, creative love
Still bade eternal Eden smile around.
Presaging instant fate her bosom heay'd
Unwonted sighs, and stealing oft a look
Of the big gloom, on Celadon her eye
Fell tearful, wetting her disorderd cheek.
In vain assuring love, and confidence
In Heaven, repressed her fear; it grew, and shook
Her frame near dissolution. He perceiv'd
Th' unequal conflict, and as angels look
On dying saints, his eyes compassion shed,
With love illumin'd high. “ Fear not,” he said,
66 Sweet innocence! thou stranger to offence,

And inward storm! he who yon sky involves
In frowns of darkness, ever smiles on thee
With kind regard. O'er thee the secret shaft
That wastes at midnight, o'er th' undreaded hour
Of noon, flies harmless : and that very voice,
Which thunders terror thro' the guilty heart,
With tongues of seraphs whispers peace to thine.
'Tis safety to be near thee sure, and thus
To clasp perfection !" From his void embrace,
Mysterious heaven! that moment to the ground,
A blacken'd corse, was struck the beauteous maid.
But who can paint the lover, as he stood,
Pierc'd by severe amazement, hating life,
Speechless, and fix'd in all the death of woe !
So, faint resemblance, on the marble tomb,
The well-dissembled mourner stooping stands,
Forever silent and forever sad.

WINTER.

As thus the snows arise ; and soul and fierce,
All Winter drives along the darken’d air ;
In his own loose-revolving fields, the swain
Disaster'd stands ; sees other hills ascend,
Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes,
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain :
Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid
Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on
From hill to dale, still more and more astray ;
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,
Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul !
What black despair, what horror fills his heart !
When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd
His tufted cottage rising through the snow,
He meets the roughness of the middle waste,
Far from the track, and bless'd abode of man

;
While round him night resistless closes fast,
And every tempest, howling o'er his head,
Renders the savage wilderness more wild.
Then throng the busy shapes into his mind,
Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep,
A dire descent! beyond the power of frost ;
Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge,

Smooth'd up with snow ; and, what is land, unknown,
What water, of the still unfrozen spring,
In the loose marsh or solitary lake,
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.
These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift.
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death ;
Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen.

In vain for him th' officious wife prepares
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ;
In vain his little children peeping out
Into the mingling storm, demand their sire,
With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold;
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve
The deadly Winter seizes ; shuts up sense ;
And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the snows, a stiffen'd corse ;
Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast.

HYMN.-By WESLEY.
The morning flowers display their sweets,
And
gay

their silken leaves unfold,
As careless of the noon-tide heats,
As fearless of the evening cold.

Nipp'd by the wind's unkindly blast,
Parch'd by the sun's directer ray;
These momentary glories waste,
These short liv'd beauties die away,

So blooms the human face divine
When youth its pride of beauty shows;
Fairer than spring the colours "shine,
And sweeter than the virgin rose.

Or worn by slowly rolling years,
Or broke by sickness in a day,
This fading glory disappears,
These short liv'd beauties die away.

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