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Young Hargrave came, the abject slave of gold,And in her ear deceitful story told;With subtle fraud assum'd each grace refin'd,And only prais'd the beauties of her mind;Practis'd each wily stratagem to moveHer tender pity, and to win her love;Nor woo'd in vain; and Eloiza's heartToo soon confess'd the triumph of his art,But when he found no wealth could e'er rewardHis boasted passion, and his feign'd regard,He fled—and left her wretched and betray'd,To court a richer, not a lovelier maid.
And now, alas! when heav'n's refulgent firesAre lighted up, and weary man retiresTo taste the pleasures of refreshing sleep,Poor Eloiza wakes to watch and weep.—Beneath yon wood's impervious shade she roves,The gloomy haunt that Eloiza loves;Or by yon cataract's tremendous height,That sparkling, flashing to the moon's pale light,Roars down its rocky channel; and at eve,Where rippling waves the sandy sea-beach lave,Oft is she seen her hasty steps to urgeAlong the margin of the murm'ring surge;Or, careless hanging o'er some craggy steep,Wash'd by the foamy billows of the deep,List'ning, with vacant eye, to the loud roarOf restless waves against the rocky shore.No parent now remains her griefs to soothe,No youthful friend her rugged couch to smooth,
