Classic Poem

Far in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of Health and Peace,
An humble cottage stood:

There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair
Beneath a mother's eye,
Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her bless'd and die.

The softest blush that Nature spreads,
Gave colour to her cheek;
Such orient colour smiles through Heav'n
When vernal mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
This charmer of the plains;
That sun which bids their diamond blaze
To paint our lily deigns.

Long had she fill'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair,
And though by all a wonder own'd,
Yet knew not she was fair;

Till Edwin came, the pride of swains!
A soul devoid oFart,
And from whose eyes, 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.

In Edwin's gentle heart a war
Of differing passions strove;
His heart, that durst not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.

Denied 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,
In 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 its prime
Before the northern blast.

The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed,
And wearied Heav'n with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrow shed.

‘'Tis past,’ he cried—‘but if your souls
Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold
What they must ever love.’

She came; his cold hand softly touch'd,
And bathed with many a tear:
Fast falling o'er the primrose pale
So morning-dews appear.

But oh! his sister's jealous care,
A cruel sister she!
Forbade what Emma came to say,—
‘My Edwin! live for me.’

Now homeward as she hopeless wept
The church-yard path along,
The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night
Her startling fancy found
In every bush his hovering shade,
His groan in every sound.

Alone, appall'd, thus had she pass'd
The visionary vale—
When, lo! the death-bell smote her ear.
Sad sounding in the gale.

Just then she reach'd, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door—
‘He's gone!’ she cried, ‘and I shall see
That angel face no more!

I feel, I feel this breaking heart
Beat high against my side—’
From her white arm down sunk her head:
She shivering sigh'd, and died.

Far in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of Health and Peace,
An humble cottage stood:

There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair
Beneath a mother's eye,
Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her bless'd and die.

The softest blush that Nature spreads,
Gave colour to her cheek;
Such orient colour smiles through Heav'n
When vernal mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
This charmer of the plains;
That sun which bids their diamond blaze
To paint our lily deigns.

Long had she fill'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair,
And though by all a wonder own'd,
Yet knew not she was fair;

Till Edwin came, the pride of swains!
A soul devoid oFart,
And from whose eyes, 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.

In Edwin's gentle heart a war
Of differing passions strove;
His heart, that durst not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.

Denied 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,
In 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 its prime
Before the northern blast.

The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed,
And wearied Heav'n with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrow shed.

‘'Tis past,’ he cried—‘but if your souls
Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold
What they must ever love.’

She came; his cold hand softly touch'd,
And bathed with many a tear:
Fast falling o'er the primrose pale
So morning-dews appear.

But oh! his sister's jealous care,
A cruel sister she!
Forbade what Emma came to say,—
‘My Edwin! live for me.’

Now homeward as she hopeless wept
The church-yard path along,
The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night
Her startling fancy found
In every bush his hovering shade,
His groan in every sound.

Alone, appall'd, thus had she pass'd
The visionary vale—
When, lo! the death-bell smote her ear.
Sad sounding in the gale.

Just then she reach'd, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door—
‘He's gone!’ she cried, ‘and I shall see
That angel face no more!

I feel, I feel this breaking heart
Beat high against my side—’
From her white arm down sunk her head:
She shivering sigh'd, and died.