Who life with all its gifts bestows,

Whose mercies never fail!
That done-he left his woodland glade,
And journey'd far away;
He lov'd to court the distant shade,
And through the lone vale stray.
Within the bosom of a wood,

By circling hills embrac'd,
A little, modest mansion stood,
Built by the hand of taste;
While many a prouder castle fell,
This safely did endure;

The house where guardian virtues dwell
Is sacred and secure.

Of eglantine an humble fence

Around the mansion stood,

Which serv'd at once to charm the sense,

And screen an infant wood.

The wood receiv'd an added grace,

As pleas'd it bent to look,

And view'd its ever verdant face
Reflected in a brook :

The smallness of the stream did well
The master's fortunes show;
But little streams may serve to tell

The source from whence they flow.
This mansion own'd an aged knight,
And such a man was he,

As heaven just shows to human sight,
To tell what man should be.
Ilis youth in many a well-fought field
Was train'd betimes to war:
His bosom, like a well-worn shield,
Was grac'd with many a scar.
The vigour of a green old age
His reverend form did bear;
And vet, alas! the warrior-sage
Had drain'd the dregs of care:
And sorrow more than age can break,
And wound its hapless prey,
'Twas sorrow furrow'd his firm cheek,
And turn'd his bright locks gray.
One darling daughter sooth'd his cares,
A young and beauteous dame,
Sole comfort of his failing years,
And Birtha was her name.
Her heart a little sacred shrine,
Where all the Virtues meet,

And holy Hope and Faith divine
Had claim'd it for their seat.
She lov'd to raise her fragrant bower
Of wild and rustic taste,

And there she screen'd each fav'rite flower

From ev'ry ruder blast;

And not a shrub or plant was there
But did some moral yield;

For wisdom, by a father's care,
Was found in ev'ry field.

The trees, whose foliage fell away,
And with the summer died,
He thought an image of decay

Might lecture human pride:
While fair perennial greens that stood.
And brav'd the wintry blast,
As types of the fair mind be view'd,
Which shall for ever last.

He taught her that the gaudiest flowers
Were seldom fragrant found,

But wasted soon their little powers,
Dropt useless on the ground:

While the sweet-scented rose shall last.
And still retain its power,
When life's imperfect day is past

And beauty's shorter hour.
And here the virgin lov'd to lead
Her inoffensive day,

And here she oft retir'd to read,
And oft retir'd to pray.

Embower'd, she grac'd the woodland shades,
From courts and cities far,
The pride of Caledonian maids,
The peerless northern star.

As shines that bright and lucid star,
The glory of the night,

When beaming through the cloud.ess air
She sheds her silver light:

So Birtha shone!-But when she spoke
The muse herself was heard,
As on the ravish'd air she broke,

And thus her prayer preferr'd:
'O bless thy Birtha, Power Supreme
In whom I live and move,
And bless me most by blessing him,
Whom more than life I love.'
She starts to hear a stranger's voice,
And with a modest grace,
She lifts her meek eye in surprise,

And sce's a stranger's face:
The stranger lost in transport stood,
Bereft of voice and power,

While she with equal wonder view'd
Sir Eldred of the bower.

The virgin blush which spreads her check
With nature's purest dye,

And all those dazzling beams which break
Like morning from her eye-
He view'd them all, and as he view'd
Drank deeply of delight;

And still his raptur'd eye pursued
And feasted on the sight.
With silent wonder long they gaz'd,
And neither silence broke;

At length the smother'd passion blaz'd,
Enamour'd Eldred spoke :

'O sacred virtue, heav'nly power!

I

Thy wond'rous force I feel:

gaze, I tremble, I adore,

Yet die my love to tell.

My scorn has oft the dart repell'd

Which guileful beauty threw;

But goodness heard, and grace beheld,
Must every heart subduo.'

Quick on the ground her eyes were cast,
And now as quickly rais'd:-

Just then her father hap'ly past,

On whom she trembling gaz'd.

Good Ardolph's eye his Bertha meets
With glances of delight;

And thus with courteous speech he greets
The young and graceful knight;
'O gallant youth, whoe'er thou art,
Right welcome to this place!

There's something rises at my heart
Which says I've seen that face.'

'Thou gen'rous knight,' the youth rejoin'd, Though little known to fame,

I trust I bear a grateful mind-
Sir Eldred is my name.'

Sir Eldred ?'-Ardolph loud exclaim'd
'Renown'd for worth and power?

For valour and for virtue fam'd,

Sir Eldred of the bower? Now make me grateful, righteous heaven, As thou art good to me,

Since to my aged eyes 'tis given

Sir Eldred's son to see!

Then Ardolph caught him by the hand,
And gaz'd upon his face,
And to his aged bosom strain'd,
With many a kind embrace.
Again he view'd him o'er and o'er,
And doubted still the truth,
And ask'd what he had ask'd before,
Then thus addresst the youth:
'Come now beneath my roof, I pray,
Some needful rest to take,
And with us many a cheerful day,
Thy friendly sojourn make!
He enter'd at the gate straightway,
Some needful rest to take;

And with them many a cheerful day
Did friendly sojourn make.

PART II.

ONCE-in a social summer's walk,
The gaudy day was fled;

They cheated time with cheerful talk,
When thus Sir Ardolph said:
Thy father was the firmest friend
That e'er my being blest;
And every virtue heaven could send,
Fast bound him to my breast..
Together did we learn to bear
The casque and ample shield;
Together learn in many a war
The deathful spear to wield.
To make our union still more dear,
We both were doom'd to prove,
What is most sweet and most severe
In heart dissolving love.

The daughter of a neighbouring knight
Did my fond heart engage;

And ne'er did heaven the virtues write
Upon a fairer page.

His bosom felt an equal wound,

Nor sigh'd we long in vain;

One summer's sun beheld us bound
In Hymen's holy chain.

Thou wast Sir ELDRED's only child,
Thy father's darling joy;
On me a lovely daughter smil'd,
On me a blooming boy;

But man has woes, has clouds of care
That dim his star of life-

My arms receiv'd the little pair,

The earth's cold breast, my wife. Forgive, thou gentle knight, forgive, Fond foolish tears will flow;

One day like mine thy heart may heave,

And mourn its lot of wo.

But grant, kind heaven! thou ne'er may'st know

The pangs I now impart;

Nor even feel the parting blow

That rives a husband's heart.

Beside the blooming banks of Tay,

My angel's ashes sleep;

And wherefore should her Ardolph stay,

Except to watch and weep'

I bore my beauteous babes away

With many a gushing tear;
I left the blooming banks of Tay,
And brought my darlings here.
I watch'd my little household cares,
And formed their growing youth:
And fondly train'd their infant years.
To piety and truth.'

'Thy blooming Birtha here I see,'
Sir Eldred straight rejoin'd;
But why thy son is not with thee,
Resolve my doubting mind.'
When Birtha did the question hear,
She sigh'd, but could not speak;
And many a soft and silent tear

Stray'd down her damask cheek.
Then pass'd o'er good Sir Ardolph's face.
A cast of deadly pale;

But soon compos'd, with manly grace,
He thus renew'd his tale:

For him my heart too much has bled,
For him, my darling son,

Has sorrow press'd my hoary head;
But heav'n's high will be done!'
Scarce eighteen winter's had revolv'd,
To crown the circling year,
Before my valiant boy resolv'd
The warrior's lance to bear.
Too high I priz'd my native land,
Too dear his fame I held,
T'oppose a parent's stern command,
And keep him from the field.
He left me-left his sister too,

Yet tears bedew'd his face-
What could a feeble old man do?
He burst from my embrace.
O thirst of glory, fatal flame!
O laurels dearly bought!

Yet sweet is death when earn'd with fame
So virtuous Edwy thought.

Full manfully the brave boy strove,
Though pressing ranks oppose;

But weak the strongest arm must prove
Against an host of foes.

A deadly wound my son receives,
A spear assails his side:

Grief does not kill-for Ardolph lives

To tell that Edwy died.
His long-lov'd mother died again
In Edwy's parting groan;

I wept for her, yet wept in vain-
I wept for both in one.

I would have died-I sought to die,
But heaven restrain'd the thought,
And to my passion-clouded eye
My helpless Birtha brought.

When lo! array'd in robes of light,
A nymph celestial came.

She clear'd the mists that dimm'd my sight-
Religion was her name.

She prov'd the chastisement divine,
And bade me kiss the rod;

She taught this rebel heart of mine
Submission to its God.

Religion taught me to sustain
What nature bade me feel;
And piety reliev'd the pain
Which time can never heal.'

He ceas'd-with sorrow and delight

The tale Sir Eldred hears:

Then weeping cries-Thou noble knight,

Thy beauteous Birtha!

How could I e'er repine,'

Gracious power!

Cries Ardolph, since I see this hour?
Yes-Birtha shall be thine.'

A little transient gleam of red
Shot faintly o'er her face,

And ev'ry trembling feature spread
With sweet disorder'd grace.
The tender father kindly smil'd
With fulness of content;
And fondly ey'd his darling child,
Who, bashful, blush'd consent.
O then to paint the vast delight

That fill'd Sir Eldred's heart,
To tell the transports of the knight,
Would mock the Muse's art.
But ev'ry kind and gracious soul,
Where gentle passions dwell,
Will better far conceive the whole,
Than any muse can tell.
The more the knight his Birtha knew,
The more he priz'd the maid;
Some worth each day produc'd to view
Some grace cach hour betray'd.
The virgin too was fond to charm

The dear accomplish'd youth;
His single breast she strove to warm,
And crown'd with love, his truth.
Unlike the dames of modern days,
Who general homage claim;
Who court the universal gaze,
And pant for public fame.
Then beauty but on merit smil'd,
Nor were her chaste smiles sold;
No venal father gave his child,

For grandeur, or for gold.
The ardour of young Eldred's flame
But ill could brook delay,
And oft he press'd the maid to name
A speedy nuptial day.
The fond impatience of his breast
'Twas all in vain to hide,
But she his eager suit represt

With modest maiden pride.

When oft Sir Eldred press'd the day
Which was to crown his truth,

The thoughtful sire would sigh and say, 'O happy state of youth!

It little recks the woes which wait
To scare it dreams of joy;

Nor thinks to-morrow's alter'd fate
May all those dreams destroy.
And though the flatterer Hope deceives,
And painted prospects shows;
Yet man, still cheated, still believes,
Till death the bright scene close.
So look'd my bride, so sweetly mild,

On ne her beauty's slave;

But whilst she look'd, and whilst she sm
She sunk into the grave.

Yet, O forgive an old man's care,
Forgive a father's zeal;
Who fondly loves must greatly fear,
Who fears must greatly feel.
Once more in soft and sacred bands
Shall Love and Hymen meet;
To-morrow shall unite your hands,
And-be your bliss complete!'
The rising sun inflam'd the sky,
The golden orient blush'd;
But Birtha's checks a sweeter dye,

A brighter crimson flush'd.

The priest in milk-white vestments claa,
Perform'd the mystic rite;

Love lit the hallow'd torch that led

To Hymen's chaste delight.
How feeble language were to speak
Th' immeasurable joy,

That fir'd Sir Eldred's ardent cheek,
And triumph'd in his eye!
Sir Ardolph's pleasure stood confest,
A pleasure all his own;
The guarded pleasure of a breast
Which many a grief had known.
'Twas such a sober sense of joy
As angels well might keep
A joy chastis'd by picty,
A joy prepared to weep.
To recollect hor scatter'd thought,
And shun the noon-tide hour,
The lovely bride in secret sought
The coolness of her bower.
Long she remain'd-th' enamour'd knight,
Impatient at her stay;

And all unfit to taste delight

When Birtha was away;

Betakes him to the secret bower;
His footsteps softly move;
Impell'd by ev'ry tender power,
He steals upon his love.

O, horror horror! blasting sight!
He sees his Birtha's charms,
Reclin'd with melting, fond delight,
Within a stranger's arms.
Wild frenzy fires his frantic hand.
Distracted at the sight,

He flies to where the lovers stand;
And stabs the stranger knight.
'Die, traitor, die! thy guilty flames
Demand th' avenging steel!-
It is my brother,' she exclaims!
"Tis Edwy-Oh farewell!'
An aged peasant, Edwy's guide,
The good old Ardolph sought;
He told him that his bosom's pride,
His Edwy, he had brought.
O how the father's feelings melt'
How faint and how revive!
Just so the Hebrew patriarch felt,
To find his son alive.
'Let me behold my darling's face,
And bless him ere I die!'
Then with a swift and vigorous pace,
He to the bower did hie;

O sad reverse-Sunk on the ground
His slaughter'd son he view'd;
And dying Birtha, close he found

In brother's blood imbru'd.
Cold, speechless, senseless, Eldred near,
Gaz'd on the deed he'd done;
Like the blank statue of Despair,

Or Madness grav'd in stone.
The father saw-so Jephthah stood,

So turn'd his wo-fraught eye,

When the dear, destin'd child he view'd

His zeal had doom'd to die.

He look'd the wo he could not speak,
And on the pale corse prest
His wan discolour'd, dying cheek,
And silent sunk to rest.

Then Birtha faintly rais'd her eye,
Which long had ceas'd to stream.
On Eldred fix'd, with many a sigh,
Its dim departing beam.
The cold, cold dews of hastening death,
Upon her pale face stand;

And quick and short her failing breath,
And tremulous her hand.

The cold, cold dews of hastening death,
The dim departing eye,

The quiv'ring hand, the short quick breath,
He view'd-and did not die.

He saw her spirit mount in air,
Its kindred skies to seek!

His heart its anguish could not bear,

And yet it would not break.
The mournful muse forbears to tell
How wretched Eldred died;
She draws the Grecian* painter's veil,
The vast distress to hide.

Yet heaven's decrees are just and wise,
And man is born to bear:

Joy is the portion of the skies,

Beneath them all is care.

Yet blame not heav'n; 'tis erring mal.,
Who mars his own best joys;
Whose passions uncontroll'd, the plan
Of promis'd bliss destroys.
Had Eldred paus'd before the blow,
His hand had never err'd;
What guilt, what complicated wo,

His soul had then been spar'd!

The deadliest wound with which we bleed.
Our crimes inflict alone;

Man's mercies from God's hand proceed,
His miseries from his own.

In the celebrated picture of the sacrifice of Iphige nia, Timanthes having exhausted every image of grief in the bystanders, threw a veil over the face of the fa ther, whose sorrow he was utterly unable to express Plin. book xxxv.

WHERE beauteous Belmont rears her modest brow

To view Sabrina's silver wave below,
Liv'd young Ianthe, fair as beauty's queen;
She reign'd unrivall'd in the sylvan scene;
Hers every charm of symmetry and grace,
Which aids the triumph of the fairest face;
With all that softer elegance of mind,
By genius heighten'd, and by taste refin'd
Yet early was she doom'd the child of care,
For hapless love subdu'd th' ill-fated fair,
Ah! what avails each captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the fairest face?
Or what each beauty of the heav'n-born mind,
The soul superior, or the taste refin'd?
Beauty but serves destruction to insure,
And sense to feel the pang it cannot cure.
Each neighb'ring youth aspir'd to gain her
hand,

nd many a suitor came from many a land :
But all in vain each neighb'ring youth aspir'd,
And distant suitors all in vain admir'd.
Averse to hear, yet fearful to offend,
The lover she refus'd she made a friend:
Her meek rejection wore so mild a face,
More like acceptance seem'd it, than disgrace.
Young Polydore, the pride of rural swains,

Was wont to visit Belmont's blooming plains.
Who has not heard how Polydore could throw
Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe î
How leave the swiftest at the race behind,
How mount the courser, and outstrip the wind?
With melting sweetness, or with magic fire,
Breathe the soft flute, or sweep the well-strung
lyre?

From that fam'd lyre no vulgar music sprung,
The Graces tun'd it, and Apollo strung.

Apollo too was once a shepherd swain, And fed the flock, and grac'd the rustic plain : He taught what charms to rural life belong, The social sweetness, and the sylvan song; He taught fair Wisdom in her grove to woo, Her joys how precious, and her wants how few! The savage herds in mute attention stood, And ravish'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood; The sacred sisters, stooping from their sphere, Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear; Till Heaven the scene survey'd with jealous

The fairest semblance of desert he bore,
And each fictitious mark of goodness wore;
Could act the tenderness he never felt,
In sorrow soften, and in anguish melt.
The sigh elaborate, the fraudful tear,
The joy dissembled, and the well feign'd fear,
All these were his; and his each treach'rous art,
That steals the guileless and unpractis'd heart.
Too soon he heard of fair Ianthe's fame,
'T'was each enamour'd shepherd's fav'rite
theme;

Return'd the rising, and the setting sun,

The shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done. They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her

air!

And even inferior beauties own'd her fair.

Such sweet perfection all his wonder moved: He saw, admired, nay, fancied that he loved: But Polydore no gen'rous passion knew, Lost to all truth in feigning to be true. No lasting tenderness could warm a heart, Too vain to feel, too selfish to impart.

Cold as the snows of Rhodope descend, And with the chilling wave of Hebrus blend; So cold the breast where Vanity presides, And the whole subject soul absorbs and guides. Too well he knew to make his conquest sure, Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure. So oft he told the well imagin'd tale,

So oft he swore-how should he not prevail? 'The well-imagin'd tale the nymph believ'd; Too unsuspecting not to be deceiv'd:

She lov'd the youth, she thought herself belov'd, Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid ap. prov'd.

The conquest once achiev'd, the brightest fair,
When conquer'd, was no longer worth his care:
When to the world her passion he could prove,
Vain of his pow'r, he jested at her love.
The perjur'd youth, from sad Ianthe fur
To win fresh triumphs, wagea cruel war.
With other nymphs behold the wand'rer ro,
And tell the story of Ianthe's love;

le mocks her casy faith, insults her wo, Nor pities tears himself had taught to flow. 'I'o sad Ianthe soon the tale was borne, How Polydore to treach'ry added scorn.

And now her eyes' soft radiance 'gan to fail, And now the crimson of her cheek grow pale; The lily there in faded beauty shows

Its sickly empire o'er the vanquish'd rose.
Devouring Sorrow marks her for his prey,
And, slow and certain, mines his silent way.
Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin'd,
Increasing strength sustain'd her firmer mind.
O had my heart been hard an his,' she cried,
'An hapless victim thus I had not died:
If there be gods, and gods there surely are,
Insulted virtue doubtless is their carc.
Then hasten, righteous Powers; my tedious
fate,

Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date: Quick let your power transform this failing frame,

Let me be any thing but what I am!

And since the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel, Proceed, alas! from having lov'd too well: Grant me some form where love can have no part, No humen weakness reach my guarded heart; Where no soft touch of passion can be felt,

No fond affection this weak bosom melt.
If Pity has not left your blest abodes,
Change me to flinty adamant, ye gode!
To hardest rock, or monumental stone,
So may I know no more the pangs I've known:
So shall I thus no farther torments prove,
Nor taunting rivals say she died for love:
For sure, if aught can aggravate our wo,
'Tis the feign'd pity of a prosp'rous foe.'
Thus pray'd the nymph, and straight the Pow'rs
addrest,

Accord the weeping suppliant's sad request.

Then strange to tell! if rural folks say true To harden'd rock the stiff'ning damsel grew, No more her shapeless features can be known, Stone is her body, and her limbs are stone; The growing rock invades her beauteous face, And quickly petrifies each living grace; The stone, her stature nor her shape retains, The nymph is vanish'd, but the rock remains. No vestige now of human shape appears. No cheeks for blushes, and no eyes for tears: Yet-strange the marvels poets can impart! Unchang'd, unchill'd, remain'd the glowing heart;

Its vital spirits destin'd still to keep,

It scorn'd to mingle with the marble heap. When babbling Fame the wondrous tidings bore,

Grief seiz'd the soul of perjur'd Polydore ;
And now the falsehood of his soul appears,
And now his broken vows assail his ears.
Appall'd his smitten fancy seems to view
The nymph so lovely, and the friend so true.
For since her absence, all the virgin train,
His admiration sought to win in vain.

Though not to keep him ev'n Ianthe knew
From vanity alone his falsehood grew:
O let the youthful heart, thus warn'd beware,
Of vanity, how deep, how wide the snare;
That half the mischiefs youth and beauty know,
From Vanity's exhaustless fountain flow.

Now deep remorse deprives his soul of rest: And deep compunction wounds his guilty breast: Then to the fatal spot in haste he flew, Eager some vestige of the maid to view, The shapeless rock he mark'd, but found no trace Of lost Ianthe's form, Ianthe's face. He fix'd his streaming eyes upon the stone, 'And take sweet maid,' he cried, 'my parting groan;

Since we are doom'd thus terribly to part,
No other nymph shall ever share my heart
Thus only I'm absolv'd'-he rashly cried,
Then plung'd a deadly poinard in his side!
Fainting, the steel he grasp'd, and as he fell
The weapon pierc'd the rock he lov'd so well:
The guiltless steel assail'd the living part,
And stabb'd the vital, vulnerable heart.
And though the rocky mass was pale before,
Behold it ting'd with ruddy streams of gore!
The life-blood issuing from the wounded stone,
Blends with the crimson current of his own,
From Polydore's fresh wound it flow'd in part,
But chief emitted from Ianthe's heart.
And though revolving ages since have past,
The meeting torrents undiminish'd last;
Still gushes out the sanguine stream amain,
The standing wonder of the stranger swain
Now once a year, so rustic records tell,