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EMMA.

GOOD heavens! what haggard form art thou, With maniac eye, and wrinkled brow,

That charity implores ; Thy form, alas! no pity claims, No breast benevolently flames,

Nor kindness for the stores.

O, sir! this once was Emma fair !
This wretch was once a beauty rare,

Our little village pride :
Tho' now her looks disgust create,
You'll hear old villagers relate,

How grace did there reside.

In yonder college, 'neath the hill-
Close by yon little murmuring rill,

Her honest father dwelt;
There independence kept her seat,
There joy sweet industry would greet,

There grief was never felt.

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Pair Emma then, like opening rose, Each tint of beauty did disclose,

Sweet nature's darling child. But dawning love, deceitful joy Stealing the transient bliss; the boy

In roguish triumph smil'd.

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Each various passion fiercely burns ; Now vice, now virtue, rule by turns

Vice, virtue overthrows ! With no rude frown the reverend sire Attempts to check this dang’rous fire,

It still more furious grows.

And now a youth from out the train Of village lads--a ruddy swain,

Possest with bold desires; Seized a sad hour his love to try, And broke fair honor's sacred tie,

And quench'd fair virtue's fires.

Virtue's distinction now o'erthrown,

And chastity for ever flown;

Gainst shame she now is proof; The town attracts, her fancy's turn, While fiercer still her passions burn;

She quits her father's roof.

Sad sire! what now can give thee joy! Where shall thy sorrows find alloy!

Nought can thy treasure save: In vain for thee, the summers yield, The blooming orchard, golden field: Thou'lt rest but in the

grave.

Lost midst the votaries of vice,
Poor Emma now receives the price

Of hired courtezan-
Now mourns in vain her hapless fate,
And now with tears, alas ! too late,

Curses the arts of man.

Grows callous now, and old in sin,
Despair, disease's horrid grin

Sits on her ghastly face ; Loathsome, infections, now at large, She comes into the parish charge

To pass from place to place. .

Near to that cottage, where in praise, She pass’d her happy, joyous days,

Under some hedge she'll lie : While at her hideous squalid form, The veriest village cur will storm

And bay her passing by.

Ye fair adhere to virtue's shrine,
Ye'll then most surely be devine-

And heavenly fair to see :
But once unveil'd your virgin rights,
Foulest dishonour on you lights,

Like Emma you will be.

TO MARY.

O think not Mary, 'twas thy charms

Alone, enslaved my captive heart No! tho' heaven is in thine arms

Thy mind can richer gems impart. 'Tis there the solid pleasure lies,

'Tis that increases every bliss, That gives fresh lustre to those eyes,

And makes those lips more sweetly kiss. Divest that beauteous form of mind,

Like an uncented flow'r 'twill lie, Where hearts no settled pleasures find,

And only feasts the greedy eye.

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