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If through the garden's flow'ry tribes I stray,
Where bloom the jes’mins that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say,
For we are spotless, Jessy, we are pure.
Say, could you 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 fame's abhorr'd contagion flee; ; Trembles each lip, and faulters ev'ry tongue,
That bids the morn propitious smile on me. Thus for your
sake I shun each human eye: I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu; To die I languish, but I dread to die, Lest my sad fate should nourish
you. Raise me from earth; the pains of want remove,
And let me silent seek some friendly shore; There, only banish'd from the form I love,
My weeping virtues 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 so the parent's board at which I fed!
Not such the precept from his lips I drew!
Haply, when age has silver'd o'er my hair,
Malice may learn to scorn so mean a spoil: Envy may slight a face no longer fair ;
And pity welcome to my native soil."
She spoke-nor was I born of savage race;
Nor could these hands a niggard boon assign; 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 ev'ry passion heave; I left her, torn from ev'ry earthly friend;
O! hard my bosom, which could bear to leave.
Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose;
The billows rag'd; the pilot's art was vain:
My Jessy floats upon the wat'ry plain!
Seek not to stop reflection's bitter tear;
From Jessy floating on her wat'ry bier!
FAR in a wild unknown to public view,
A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd heaven itself, till one suggestion rose; That vice should triumph, virtue vice obeý, This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway: His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost: So when a smooth expanse receives imprest Calm nature's image on its wat'ry breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, And skies beneath with answ'ring colours glow: But if a stone the gentle scene divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on ev'ry side, And glimm'ring fragments of a broken sun, Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.