The ardour of

young

ELDRED'S flame

But ill cou'd brook delay,

And oft he prefs'd the maid to name

A speedy nuptial day.

The fond impatience of his breast
'Twas all in vain to hide,
But fhe his eager fuit repreft

With modeft, maiden pride.

When oft Sir ELDRED prefs'd the day
Which was to crown his truth,
The thoughtful Sire would figh, and fay,
"O happy state of youth!

"It little recks the woes which wait
"To fcare its dreams of joy,
"Nor thinks to-morrow's alter'd fate
"May all thofe dreams deftroy.

"And tho' the flatterer, Hope, deceives,
"And painted profpects fhews;
"Yet man, ftill cheated, still believes
"Till death the bright fcene close.

"So look'd my bride, fo fweetly mild, "On me her beauty's flave;

"But whilft fhe look'd, and whilft fhe fmil'd,

"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 foft and facred bands "Shall Love and Hymen meet; "To-morrow fhall unite your hands, "And-be your blifs complete !"

The rifing fun inflam'd the sky,
The golden orient blush'd,
But BIRTHA's cheeks a sweeter die,
A brighter crimson flufh'd.

The Prieft, in milk-white veftments clad,
Perform'd the mystic rite;
Love lit the hallow'd torch that led
To Hymen's chaîte delight.

How feeble language were to fpeak
Th' immeafurable joy

That fir'd Sir ELDRED's ardent cheek,
And triumph'd in his eye!

Sir ARDOLPH's pleasure stood confeft,
A pleasure all his own;

The guarded rapture of a breaft
Which many a grief had known.

'Twas fuch a fober fenfe of joy
As Angels well might keep;

A joy chaltis'd by piety,
A joy prepar'd to weep.

To recollect her fcatter'd thought,
And fhun the noon-tide hour,
The lovely bride in fecret fought
The coolnefs of her bower.

she

Long the remain'd-th' enamour'd Knight,

Impatient at her ftay,

And all unfit to tafte delight

When BIRTHA was away.

Betakes him to the fecret Bower;
His footsteps softly move;
Impell'd by every tender power,
He steals upon his love.

O, horror! horror! blafting fight!
He fees his BIRTHA's charms,
Reclin'd with melting fond delight,
Within a stranger's arms.

Wild frenzy fires his frantic hand,
Distracted at the fight,

He flies to where the lovers ftand,
And ftabs the ftranger Knight.

"Die traitor, die, thy guilty flames
"Demand th' avenging fteel"-
"It is my brother, fhe exclaims,
"'Tis EDWY-Oh farewell!

An aged peasant, Enwy's guide,
The good old ARDOLPH fought;
He told him that his bofom's pride,
His EDWY, he had brought.

O how the father's feelings melt!
How faint and how revive!
Juft fo the Hebrew Patriarch felt,
To find his fon alive.

"Let me behold my darling's face,
"And blefs him ere I die!

Then with a swift and vigorous pace,
He to the the Bower did hie.

O fad reverfe !-funk on the r ind
His flaughter'd fon he view,
And dying BIRTHA clofe he found
In brother's blood imbru'd.

Cold, fpeechlefs, fenfelefs ELDRED near
Gaz'd on the deed he'd done :
Like the blank ftatue of Despair,
Or Madness grav'd in itone.

The father faw-fo Jepthah ftood,
So turn'd his woe-fraught eye,
When the dear, deftin'd child he view'd,
His zeal had doom'd to die.

He look'd the woe he could not speak,
And on the pale corfe preft
His wan, difcolour'd, dying cheek,
And filent, funk to reft.

Then BIRTHA faintly rais'd her eye,
Which long had ceas'd to stream,
On ELDRED fix'd with many a figh
Its dim, departing beam.

The cold, cold dews of haftening death Upon her pale face ftand;

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

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

The quivering hand, the fhort quick breath
He view'd-and did not die.

He saw her spirit mount in air,
Its kindred fkies to feek!

His heart its anguifh could not bear,
And yet it would not break.

The mournful Mufe forbears to tell
How wretched ELDRED died:

She draws the Grecian Painter's veil,
The vaft diftrefs to hide.

Yet Heaven's decrees are just and wife,

And man is born to bear,

Joy is the portion of the skies,
Beneath them, all is care.

In the celebrated Picture of the Sacrifice of Iphigenia, Timanthes having exhaufted every image of grief in the by-ftanders, threw a veil over the face of the father, whofe forrow he was utterly unable to exprefs. PLIN. Book xxxv.

THE END.