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No smile shall on my cheek appear:—But hark! my lover's voice I hear—'Oh! come Eudora! come away;'Tis Lewis chides thy ling'ring stay:
The silence of the grave is bless'd,Where all our cares and wand'rings rest:Oh! come Eudora—haste away,'—I come, I come—sweet spirit! stay!"
She said; and where yon grey oaks spreadTheir leafy shade she bow'd her head,And, sinking on the green earth, sigh'dHer murder'd lover's name, and died!
THE RURAL WALK.
"Come, Sarah, let us range the grove, And taste the sweets that nature yields;Admire her charms where'er we rove— O'er mountain top, or verdant fields.
Behold yon cliffs where groves of pine Scarce wave their dark-green drooping heads;Behold yon blooming fertile meads Where straggling wild flow'rs make their beds;
