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Guilt hears appall'd,' with deeply troubled thought. And yet not always on the guilty head Descends the fated flash. Young Celadon And his Amelia were a matchless pair; With equal virtue form'd, and equal grace, The fame, distinguish'd by their sex alone: Hers the mrld lustre of the blooming morn, And his the radiance of the risen day.

They Iovm: But such their guileless passion was,
As in the dawn of time inform'd the heart
Of innocence, and undissembling truth.
'Twas friendship heighten'd by the mutual wish,
Th' enchanting 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 lise, 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 blest, creative love
Still bade eternal Eden smile around.
Prefaging instant fate her bosom heav'd
Unwonted sighs, and stealing oft a look
Of the big gloom on Celadon her eye
Fell tearsul, wetting her dHorder'd cheek.
In vain assuring love, and considence
In Heaven, repress'd her sear; it grew, and shook
Her frame near dissolution. He perceiv'd
Th' unequal conflict, and as angels look
On dying faints, his eyes compassion shed,
With love illumin'd high. "Fear not, he faid,
"Sweet innocence 1 thou stranger to offence,
"And inward storm! He, who yon skies involves
"In frowns of darkness, ever smiles on thee
"With kind regard. O'er thee the secret shast
"That wastes at midnight, or th' undreaded hour

«• Os noon, flies harmless: and that very voices

"Which thunders terror thro' the guilty heart,

"With tongues of seraphs whispers peace to thine.

"'Tis fasety to be near thee sure, and thus

"To clasp persection!" From his void embrace,

Mysterious Heaven! that moment, to the ground,

A blacken'd corse, was struck the beautious maid.

But who can paint the lover, as he stood,

Pierc'd by severe amazement, hating lise,

Speechless, and six'd in all the death of woe!

So, faint resemblance, on the marble tomb,

The well dissembled mourner stooping stands,

For ever silent, and for ever fad.

In the poem on autumn, he introduces a prospect of the sields ready for harvest, with some reflections in praise of industry, which are naturally excited by that scene. We are then presented with a description of reapers in a sield, and with a tale relative to it which we shall insert. This is followed by a description of an harvest storm, and of hunting and shooting, with suitable reflections on the barbarity of those pastimes. After which he gives us a description of an orchard, wall-fruit, and a vineyard ; descants on the fogs, that so frequently prevail in the latter part of autumn, and by a beautisul and philosophical digreflion, endeavours to investigate the cause of springs and rivers. He then considers the birds of season, that now change their habitation, and speaks of the prodigious number that cover the western and northern ifles of Scotland. This naturally leads him to describe that country. We are then entertained with a prospect of woods that are fading and discoloured, of moon-light aster a gentle dusky day, and of autumnal meteors. The morning succeeds, which ushers in a calm sun-shiny day, such as usually close this season. He then describes the country people at the end of harvest, giving loose to pleasure and dissolv'd in joy, and concludes with a panegyric on a philosophical country lise.

The following pleasing and pathetick tale, which is naturally introduced in his description of the reapers, is, if I mistake not, borrowed from the story of Ruth in the Old Testament.

Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky, And, unperceiv'd, unfolds the spreading day; Before the ripen'd sield the reapers stand, In fair array: each by the lass he loves, To bear the rougher part, and mitigate By nameless gentle offices her toil. At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves; While thro' their chearsul band the rural talk, The rural scandal, and the rural jest, Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time, And steal unselt the sultry hours away. Behind the master walks, builds up the shocks; And, conscious, glancing oft on every side His fated eye, seels his heart heave with joy. The gleaners spread around, and here and there, Spike aster spike, their seanty harvest pick. Be not too narrow, husbandmen! but fling From the sull sheaf, with charitable stealth, The liberal handsul. Think, oh gratesul think! How good the God of Harvest is to you; Who pours abundance o'er your slowing sicUs; While these unhappy partners of your kind, Wide hover round you, like the fowls of heaven, And ask their humble dole. The various turns Of fortune ponder; that your sons may want What now, with hard reluctance, faint, ye give.

The lovely young Lavinia once had friends; And fortune fmil'd, deceitsul, on her birth. For, in her helpless years depriv'd of all, Of every stay, fave innocence and Heaven, She with her widow'd mother, seeble, old, And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd Among the windings of a woody vale; By solitude and deep surrounding shades, But more by bashsul modesty, conceal'd. Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet From giddy passion and low-minded pride: Almost on nature's common bounty sed; Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, Content and careless of to-morrow's fare. Her form was fresher than the morning rose,

When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd, and pure,

As is the lily, or the mountain snow.

The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,

Still on the ground dejected, darting all

Their humid beams into the blooming flowers:

Or when the mournsul tale her mother told,

Of what her faithless fortune promised once,

Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star

Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace

Sat fair proportions on her polish'd limbs,

Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire,

Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness

Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,

But is when unadorn'd adorn'd the most.

Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self,

Recluse amid the close-embowering woods.

As in the hollow breast of Appenine,

Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,

A myrtle rises, far from human eye,

And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild;

So fiourish'd blooming, and unseen by all,

The sweet Lavinia; till, at length, compell'd

By strong necessity's supreme command,

With smiling patience in her looks, she went

To glean Palemon's sields. The pride of swains

Pa Lemon was, the generous, and the rich;

Who led the rural lise in all its joy

And elegance, such as Arcadian song

Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times;

When tyrant custom had not shackled man,

But free to follow nature was the mode.

He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes

Amusing, chanc'd beside his reaper-train

To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye;

Unconscious of her power, and turning quick

With unasfected blushes from his gaze:

He Taw her charming, but he saw not half

The charms her down-cast modesty conceal'd.

That very moment love and chaste desire

Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown;

For still the world prevail'd, and its dread laugh,

Which scarce the sirm philosopher can scorn,

Should his heart own a gleaner in the sield:

And thus in secret to his soul he sigh'd.

"What pity! that so delicate a form,

"By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense

"And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell,

«« Should be devoted to the rude embrace

"Of some indecent clown! She looks, methinks,

«■ Of old Acasto's line; and to my mind

"Recalls that patron of my happy lise,

"From whom my liberal fortune took its rise;

"Now to the dull gone down; his houses, land,

- And once fair-spreading family, dissolv'd.

"'Tis faid that in some lone obscure retreat,

"Urg'd by remembrance fad, and decent pride,

"Far from those scenes which knew their better days,

"His aged widow and his daughter live,

"Whom yet my fruitless search could never sind.

«« Romantic wish! Would this the daughter were!"

When, strict enquiring, from herself he found She was the fame, the daughter of his friend, Of bountisul Acasto ; who can speak The mingled passions that sorpriVd his heart, And thro' his nerves in shivering transport ran? Then blaz'd his fmotherM flame, avow'd, and bold; And as he view'd her, ardent, o'er and o'er, Love, gratitude, and pity wept at once. Consus'd, and frightned at his sudden tears, Her rising beauties flush'd a higher bloom, As thus Palemon, passionate, and just, Pour'd out the pious rapture of his foul.

"And art thou then Acasto's dear remains? "She, whom my restless gratitude has sought, "So long in vain f O heav'ns! the very fame "The soften'd image of my noble friend, "Alive his very look, his every seature, "More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than spring! "Thou sole surviving blossom from the root "That nourish'd up my fortune! Say, ah where, "In what sequester'd defart, hast thou drawn "The kindest aspect of delighted Heaven? "Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair; "Tho' poverty's cold wind, and crushing rain, "Beat keen, and heavy, on thy tender years "O let me now, into a richer soil,

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