4
In Edwin’s gentle heart away.
Of different passions strove;
His heart that could not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.
Deny'd her sight he oft behind
The spreading hawthorn crept.
To snatch a glance to mark the spot,
Where Emma walk’d and wept.
Oft too on Stanemore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade,
It sighs to pour his soften’d soul,
The midnight mourner stray'd.
His cheek where health with beauty glow’d,
A deadly pale o’ercast:
So fades the fresh rose in his prime,
Before the northern blast.
The parents now with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed;
And weary’d heaven with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrow shed.
'Tis past! he cry’d—but if your souls,
Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold
What they must ever love.
