3
Till Edwin came, the pride of swains
A soul that knew no art;
And from whose eye, serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.
A mutual flame was quickly caught;
Was quickly too reveal’d;
For neither bosom lodg'd a wish,
That virtue keeps conceal'd.
What happy hours of home felt bliss,
Did love on both bestow;
But bliss too mighty long to last.
Where fortune proves a foe.
His sister who, like Envy form'd,
Like her in mischief joy'd,
To work them harm with wicked skill,
Each darker art employ’d.
The father too a sordid man,
Who love nor pity knew,
Was all-unfeeling as the clod,
From whence his riches grew.
Long had he seen their secret flame,
And seen it long unmov'd!
Then with a father’s frown at last
Had sternly disapprov'd.
