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'Tell me, Orlando,' then young Edwin cried, 'O tell me why this lily droops beneath

So stern a fate? ah, would to heav'n

my hand, 'My fost'ring hand, could prop its falling

bloom!

'I would sustain it with a lover's care,

'And grace with all his favor.'

orlando.

Oh my friend

There dwelt not on our plains a lovlier maid, Or one of sweeter nature, modesty,

Calm innocence, and mild simplicity,

Spread their chaste colours o'er her tender form;

No care disturb'd the dimple on her cheek,
But jocund health sprang lightly bounding on,
With rapture moving to the note of joy,
The boast of yon sad weeping cots, the pride
And support of an aged sire, sole suit
And fav'rite of the gen'rous youth, with worth,
With honour, and affection blest, but ah!
Misfortune crush'd this spotless flower, and
dash'd it

In the dust!—ken'st thou, Edwin yonder halls
Whose turrets rise above the circling wood?
Their Lord can vaunt of Fortune's lib'ral smile,

Noble by birth, but of a soul as mean

As

yon

vile worm that creeps in slime along: By subtile fraud and flatt'ry's soothing charms He caught poor Mary's unsuspecting heart, And villian as he was, and under plea Of holy rites betray'd the heart he won, Left her the soul-tormenting pang to feel Of disappointed love, left her to prove Maternal care imbitter'd by remorse,

To curse those charms that lur'd the spoiler's

eye

And broke a parent's heart:—since that sad

hour

She roams the fields, her infant in her arms,
And oft will utter such wild strains of grief,
Her base betrayer her continual theme,
As those you 've lately heard—but hark my
friend!

The gentle Mourner sings; it is her voice
Beneath the echoing arch; oft mid the aisle
Of yonder Abbey will she sit and pour
Her love-lorn sorrows o'er the mossy tomb.

edwin.

Blest be the soul that touch'd so sweetly wild The tender note of woe! Ah, Mourner dear! Long as thou breath'st this vital air, so long

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The ray of hope shall tint thy passing day, And when at length the wish'd for hour shall

come

That giv'st thy sorrows to the mould'ring grave,
Thou shalt not want the sympathetic tear,
Nor yet the turf thy sprite delights to haunt,
With all the fragrance of the blushing spring
Forget to bloom.

orlando.

Mark yon grass-grown cloyster, Her lone, yet fav'rite walk! here oft at noon, At eve and dewy morn, with tearful eye She comes, to meditate past scenes of dark And pensive hue, and oft her fancy deems The dear deceiver dead, with all the sad And horrid circumstance of tragic woe.

edwin.

Poor Mary! fare thee well! oft shall Edwin

stray

From yonder neighb'ring vale, oft gently try To dissipate thy cheerless gloom, and check Thy falling tear—till then, meek nature's child! Till then, thou pilgrim mourner! fare thee well.

NUMBER XVII.

Spelunca alta fuit, vastoque immanis hiatu, Scrupea, tuta lacu nigro nemorumque tenebris; Quam superhaud ullæ poterant impune volantes Tendere iter pennis: talis sese halitus atris Faucibus effundens supera ad convexa ferebat. Virgil.

Objects of terror may with propriety be divided into those which owe their origin to the agency of super-human beings, and form a part of every system of mythology, and into those which depend upon natural causes and events for their production. In the essay on gothic superstition the former species has been noticed, and a tale presented to the reader whose chief circumstances are brought about through the influence of preternatural power; on the latter we shall now deliver a few observations, and terminate them with a fragment

in which terror is attempted to be excited by the interference of simple material causation.

Terror thus produced requires no small degree of skill and arrangement to prevent its operating more pain than pleasure. Unaccompanied by those mysterious incidents which indicate the ministration of beings mightier far than we, and which induce that thrilling sensation of mingled astonishment, apprehension and delight so irresistibly captivating to the generality of mankind, it will be apt to create rather horror and disgust than the grateful emotion intended. To obviate this result, it is necessary either to interpose picturesque description, or sublime and pathetic sentiment, or so to stimulate curiosity by the artful tex ture of the fable, or by the uncertain and suspended fate of an interesting personage, that the mind shall receive such a degree of artificial pleasure as may mitigate and subdue what, if naked of decoration and skilful accompaniment, would shock and appal every feeling heart.

A poem, a novel, or a picture may however, notwithstanding its accurate imitation of nature,

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