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What sorrows were ours when fortune fled,
And hope's illusive dreams were dead;
Fond feelings that rush'd

Through my bosom, were crush'd

head

In their dawn, when ruin hung o'er my
My heart grew cold, though I feign'd to smile,
As she hung on my neck with endearing wile,
While the sad farewell

On my damp brow fell,

When I tore from my love and my native isle!

Through India's plains I roam'd afar,

And courted solace 'midst the strife of war:
Yet by night or by day,

Through danger's array,

She beam'd in my bosom hope's brightest star!
I return'd, and sought through fair Bowerdale
The friend of my love-but sorrow's wail
Rung wild through the woods,

O'er the dales and the floods;
For Helen, their angel, was cold and pale!

REMORSE.

AWAY! from the dread fascinations that flow'd,

Where the wine circled round, and the warm bosom glow'd, With estrangement of feeling, I knew not its own,

So wildly it throbb'd, and more wild when alone:

THE FATE OF EVELINA.

237

I sought the deep grove, and the night's chilling breeze, Where the cottage of Jessy was seen through the trees; And vow'd soon as morning gave reason her reign, That I never would play the wild rover again.

I wander'd unconscious that love led me there,
Till I lean'd on the oak by the blooming parterre:
O night! thou art lovely when stars twinkle bright;
But the star of my hopes met my rapturous sight
As she knelt in devotion; her orisons rose
On the whispers of night, ere she sought her repose,
While her wanderer vow'd as he paced o'er the plain,
That he never would play the wild rover again.

THE FATE OF EVELINA.

THE lava was rolling his burning flood

O'er the vineyards since day begun;

While the dense dark clouds threw a midnight veil
On the bright meridian sun!

Yon burning groves will light our way—
Evelina, fly!-thy loved cottage shun-

To a safe retreat, since the lamp of day
Is gone from our sight. From ruin run—
Beloved Evelina, come!

The poison'd breeze-should its tainted breath
In our face blow the sulphurous air,
From the lava's tide-'twere instant death
To linger a moment there.

Where the palm and the olive lights the gloom,
And the hissing lava seeks its prey,
Vesuvius hath seal'd Resina's doom,
My loved one fly! we dare not stay—
Beloved Evelina, come!

In vain the peasant besought his bride,
To flee from the mount to the plain;
But she rush'd through the burning olive grove,
Her loved cottage to regain:

When the lava closed, and the fire-shower fell,
And the earthquake shook the ground;
Still the peasant linger'd with frantic yell,
Calling loud through the ruins around,

Beloved Evelina, come!

The catastrophe narrated here, is presumed to have taken place during the great eruption of Mount Vesuvius, in June 1794, as described by Sir William Hamilton, in the Philosophical Transactions, vol. 73; after reading his remarks made while at Rosarno and the ruined towns around it, especially the first sentence of the following:

"The male dead were generally found under the ruins, in the attitude of struggling against the danger; but the female attitude was usually with hands clasped over their heads, as giving themselves up to despair, unless they had children near them. In which case, they were always found clasping the children in their arms, or in some attitude or other, which indicated their anxious care to protect them. A strong instance of the maternal tenderness of the sex.' ""

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THE DESPONDING SHEPHERD.

I ance knew content, but its smiles are awa',
The broom blooms bonnie, an' grows sae fair;
Each tried friend forsakes me, sweet Phebe an' a',
So I never will gae down to the broom ony mair.

How light was my step, and my heart, O how gay!
The broom blooms bonnie, the broom blooms fair;
Till Phebe was crown'd our queen of the May,

[air.

When the bloom o' the broom strew'd its sweets on the

She was mine when the snaw-draps hung white on the lea, Ere the broom bloom'd bonnie, an' grew sae fair;

Till May-day, anither wysed Phebe frae me,

So I ne'er will gae down to the broom ony mair.

Sing, Love, thy fond promises melt like the snaw,
When broom waves lonely, an' bleak blaws the air;
For Phebe to me now is naething ava,

If

my heart could say, "Gang to the broom nae mair.”

Durst I trow that thy dreams in the night hover o'er,
Where broom blooms bonnie, an' grows sae fair;
The swain (who, while waking, thou thinks of no more,)
Whisp'ring, "Love, will ye gang to the broom ony mair?"

No! Fare thee well Phebe; I'm owre wae to weep,
Or to think o' the broom growing bonnie an' fair;
Since thy heart is anither's, in death I maun sleep,
'Neath the broom on the lea, an' the bawm sunny air.

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