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" Henry, she faid, by thy dear form subdu'd,
See the sad reliques of a nymph undone ! I find, I find this rising sob renew'd:
I sigh in shades, and licken at the sun.
Amid the dreary gloom of night, I cry,
When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return? Yet what can morn's returning ray supply,
But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn !
Alas! no more that joyous morn appears
That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame ; For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears,
And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame.
The vocal birds that raise their matin strain,
The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan; All seem to chase me from the chearful plain,
And talk of truth and innocence alone.
If thro' the garden's Aow'ry tribes I stray,
Where bloom the jasmins that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say,
For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.
Ye flow'rs! that well reproach a nymph so frail,
ye with my virgin fame compare ? The brightest bud that scents the vernal gale Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair.
Now the grave old alarm the gentler young;
And all my fanie's abhorr’d contagion fee ; Trembles each lip, and faulters every tongue,
That bids the morn propitious finile on me.
Thus for your sake I shun each human eye ;
I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu ;
Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove,
And let me silent feek some friendly shore; There only, banish'd from the form I love,
My weeping virtue shall relapse no more.
Be but my friend ; I ask no dearer name ;
Be such the meed of some more artful fair ; Nor could it heal my peace, or chase my shame,
That pity gave, what love refus'd to share.
Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread;
Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew; Not such the parent's board at which I fed!
Not such the precept from his lips I drew!
Haply, when age has filver'd o'er my hair,
learn to scorn so mean a spoil ; Envy may night a face no longer fair ;
And pity, welcome, to my native foil."
She spoke~nor was I born of favage race ;
Nor could these hands a niggard boon asign; Grateful she clasp'd me in a last embrace,
And vow'd to waste her life in pray’rs for mine.
I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend ;
I saw her breast with every passion heave; I left her-torn from every earthly friend ;
Oh! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave!
Brief let me be ; the fatal storm aròse ;
The billows rag'd, the pilot's art was vain ; O’er the tall mast the circling surges close;
My Jessy-floats upon the watry plain!
And-see my youth's impetuous fires decay ;
Seek not to stop reflection's bitter tear ; But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay,
From Jessy floating on her wat’ry bier !