"My native vale! and thou delightful bower!
"Scenes to my hopeless love for ever dear;
"Sweet vale, for whom the morning wak'd her flow'r,
"Gay bower, for whom the evening pour'd her tear.
"I ask no more to see your beauties rise--
"Ye rocks and mountains, on whose rugged breast
"My Alfred, murder'd by Euphelia, lies,
"In _your_ deep solitudes oh let me rest!"
"And sure the dawning ray that lights the steep,
"And slowly wanders o'er the purple wave;
"Will shew me where his sacred relics sleep,
"Will lead his mourner to her destin'd grave.--
O'er the high precipice unmov'd she bent,
A fearful path the beams of morning shew,
The pilgrim reach'd with toil the rude ascent,
And saw her brooding o'er the deep below.
"Euphelia stay! he cried, thy Alfred calls--
"Oh stay, my love! in sorrow yet more dear,
"I come!"--In vain the soothing accent falls,
Alas, it reach'd not her distracted ear.
"Ah, what avails, she said, that morning rose?
"With fruitless pain I seek his mould'ring clay;
"Vain search! to fill the measure of my woes,
"The foaming surge has wash'd his corse away.
Pages:
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163