The warblers are heard in each grove,
The linnet, the lark and the thrush;
The blackbird and fweet cooing dove
With mufic enchant every bush.
Come let us go forth to the mead,

Let us fee how the primroses fpring; We'll lodge in fome village on Tweed, And love while the feather'd folks fing.

How does my love pass the long day?
Does MARY not tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelessly ftray,

While happily fhe lies asleep?
Tweed's murmurs fhould lull her to reft,
Kind nature indulging my blifs,
To relieve the foft pains of my breaft
I'd fteal an ambrofial kifs.

'Tis fhe does the virgins excel,

No beauty with her can compare, Love's graces all round her do dwell,

She's faireft where thoufands are fair. Say charmer where do thy flocks ftray?

Oh! tell me at noon where they feed: Shall I feek them on fweet winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed.

FAR

AR in the windings of a vale,
Faft by a fheltering wood,

The fafe retreat of health and peace,
An humble cottage stood.

There beauteous EMMA flourish'd fair

Beneath a mother's eye,

Whose only wish on earth was now

To see her bleft, and die.

The fofteft blush that nature spreads
Gave colour to her cheek;

Such orient colour fmiles thro' heav'n
When May's fweet mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones fcorn
This charmer of the plains;

That fun which bids their diamond blaze,

To deck our lily deigns.

Long had the fir'd each youth with love,

Each maiden with despair;

And tho' by all a wonder own'd,

Yet knew not she was fair.

Till EDWIN came, the pride of fwains,
A foul that knew no art,

And from whofe eyes ferenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught,
Was quickly too reveal'd;
For neither bofom lodg'd a wish,
Which virtue keeps conceal'd.

What happy hours of heartfelt blifs,
Did love on both bestow!

But blifs too mighty long to laft,
Where fortune proves a foe.

His fifter, who like envy form'd,
Like her in mischief joy'd,

To work them harm, with wicked skill

Each darker art employ'd.

The

The father too, a fordid man,

Who love nor pity knew, Was all unfeeling as the rock From whence his riches grew.

Long had he feen their mutual flame,
And feen it long unmov'd;
Then with a father's frown at laft,
He fternly disapprov'd.

In EDWIN's gentle heart a war
Of differing paffions strove;
His heart which durft not disobey,
Yet could not ceafe to love.

Deny'd her fight, he oft behind
The spreading hawthorn crept,
To fnatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where EMMA walk'd and wept.

Oft too in Stanemore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight fhade,

In fighs to pour his foften'd foul
The midnight mourner stray'd.

His cheeks, where love with beauty glow'd,

A deadly pale o'ercaft;

So fades the fresh rofe in its prime,

Before the northern blast.

The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed,

And w ary'd heav'n with fruitless pray'rs,
And fruitlefs forrows fhed.

"Tis past, he cry'd, but, if your fouls

Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let thefe dim eyes once more behold
What they muft ever love.

She came; his cold hand foftly touch'd,
And bath'd with many a tear;
Faft falling o'er the primrose pale
So morning dews appear.

But oh! his fifter's jealous care

(A cruel fifter fhe!)

Forbad what EMMA came to fay

My EDWIN, live for me.

Now