And, last, that sprite which does incessant haunt
The lover's steps, the ancient maiden aunt,
To her dear Henry Emma wings her way,
With quicken'd pace repairing forc'd delay:
For Love, fantastic power, that is afraid
To stir abroad till Watchfulness be laid,
Undaunted then o'er cliffs and valleys strays,
And leads his votaries safe through pathless ways.
Not Argus with his hundred eyes shall find
Where Cupid goes, though he, poor guide, is blind.
The maiden first arriving, sent her eye
To ask if yet its chief delight were nigh:
With fear and with desire, with joy and pain
She sees, and runs to meet him on the plain;
But, oh! his steps proclaim no lover's haste;
On the low ground his fix'd regards are cast;
His artful bosom heaves dissembled sighs,
And tears, suborn'd, fall copious from his eyes.
With ease, alas! we credit what we love;
His painted grief does real sorrow move
In the afflicted fair: adown her cheek

Trickling the genuine tears their current break:
Attentive stood the mournful nymph: the man
Broke silence first: the tale alternate ran.

Hen. Sincere, O tell me, hast thou felt a pain,
Emma, beyond what woman knows to feign?
Has thy uncertain bosom ever strove
With the first tumults of a real love?

Hast thou now dreaded and now bless'd his sway,
By turns averse and joyful to obey?
Thy virgin softness hast thou e'er bewail'd,
As reason yielded, and as love prevail'd?
And wept the potent god's resistless dart,
His killing pleasure, his ecstatic smart,
And heavenly poison thrilling through thy heart?,
If so, with pity view my wretched state,
At least deplore, and then forget my fate:
To some more happy knight reserve thy charms,
By Fortune favour'd and successful arms;

And only as the sun's revolving ray
Brings back each year this melancholy day,
Permit one sigh, and set apart one tear
To an abandon'd exile's endless care.
For me, alas! outcast of human race,
Love's anger only waits, and dire disgrace;
For, lo! these hands in murder are imbrued,
These trembling feet by Justice are pursued:
Fate calls aloud, and hastens me away;

A shameful death attends my longer stay;
And I this night must fly from thee and love,
Condemn'd in lonely woods a banish'd man to rove.
Emma. What is our bliss that changeth with the

moon,

And day of life that darkens ere 'tis noon?
What is true passion, if unbless'd it dies ?
And where is Emma's joy, if Henry flies?
If love, alas! be pain, the pain I bear
No thought can figure, and no tongue declare.
Ne'er faithful woman felt, nor false one feign'd
The flames which long have in my bosom reign'd:
The god of Love himself inhabits there,
With all his rage, and dread, and grief, and care,
His complement of stores and total war.

O cease then coldly to suspect my love,
And let my deed at least my faith approve.
Alas! no youth shall my endearments share,
Nor day nor night shall interrupt my care;
No future story shall with truth upbraid
The cold indifference of the Nut-brown Maid;
Nor to hard banishment shall Henry run,
While careless Emma sleeps on beds of down.
View me resolv'd, where'er thou lead'st, to go,
Friend to thy pain, and partner of thy woe;
For I attest fair Venus and her son,
That I, of all mankind, will love but thee alone.
Hen. Let prudence yet obstruct thy vent'rous way,
And take good heed what men will think and say;
That beauteous Emma vagrant courses took,
Her father's house and civil life forsook;

That full of youthful blood, and fond of man,
She to the woodland with an exile ran.
Reflect, that lessen'd fame is ne'er regain'd,
And virgin-honour once, is always, stain'd:
Timely advis'd, the coming evil shun;

Better not do the deed, than weep it done :
No penance can absolve our guilty fame,

Nor tears, that wash out sin, can wash out shame: Then fly the sad effects of desperate love,

And leave a banish'd man through lonely woods to

rove.

Emma. Let Emma's hapless case be falsely told By the rash young or the ill-natur'd old; Let every tongue its various censures choose, Absolve with coldness, or with spite accuse; Fair Truth at last her radiant beams will raise, And Malice, vanquish'd, heightens Virtue's praise. Let then thy favour but indulge my flight, O! let my presence make thy travels light, And potent Venus shall exalt my name, Above the rumours of censorious Fame; Nor from that busy demon's restless power Will ever Emma other grace implore,

Than that this truth should to the world be known, That I, of all mankind, have lov'd but thee alone. Hen. But canst thou wield the sword, and bend the bow?

With active force repel the sturdy foe?

When the loud tumult speaks the battle nigh,
And winged deaths in whistling arrows fly,
Wilt thou, though wounded, yet undaunted stay,
Perform thy part, and share the dangerous day?
Then, as thy strength decays, thy heart will fail;
Thy limbs all trembling and thy cheeks all pale,
With fruitless sorrow thou, inglorious maid,
Wilt weep thy safety, by thy love betray'd;
Then to thy friend, by foes o'ercharg'd, deny
Thy little useless aid, and coward fly;

Then wilt thou curse the chance that made thee love
A banish'd man, condemn'd in lonely woods to rove.

Emma. With fatal certainty Thalestris knew
To send the arrow from the twanging yew:
And great in arms, and foremost in the war,
Bonduca, brandish'd high the British spear:
Could thirst of vengeance and desire of fame
Excite the female breast with martial flame ?
And shall not Love's diviner power inspire
More hardy virtue and more generous fire?
Near thee, mistrust not, constant I'll abide,
And fall or vanquish, fighting by thy side.
Though my inferior strength may not allow
That I should bear or draw the warrior bow,
With ready hand I will the shaft supply,
And joy to see thy victor-arrows fly.
Touch'd in the battle by the hostile reed,
Shouldst thou (but Heaven avert it!) shouldst thou
bleed,

To stop the wounds my finest lawn I'd tear,
Wash them with tears, and wipe them with my hair;
Bless'd when my dangers and my toils have shown
That I, of all mankind, could love but thee alone.
Hen. But canst thou, tender Maid, canst thou
sustain

Afflictive want, or hunger's pressing pain?
Those limbs, in lawn and softest silk array'd,
From sunbeams guarded, and of winds afraid,
Can they bear angry Jove? can they resist
The parching Dog-star and the bleak North-east?
When, chill'd by adverse snows and beating rain,
We tread with weary steps the longsome plain;
When with hard toil we seek our evening food,
Berries and acorns, from the neighbouring wood,
And find among the cliffs no other house
But the thin covert of some gather'd boughs,
Wilt thou not then reluctant send thine eye
Around the dreary waste, and weeping try
(Though then, alas! that trial be too late)
To find thy father's hospitable gate,

And seats where Ease and Plenty brooding sate i

Those seats whence,long-excluded,thou must mourn; That gate for ever barr'd to thy return;

-Wilt thou not then bewail ill-fated love,

And hate a banish'd man, condemn'd in woods to rove?

Emma. Thy rise of fortune did I only wed, From its decline determin'd to recede; Did I but purpose to embark with thee On the smooth surface of a summer's sea, While gentle zephyrs play in prosperous gales, And Fortune's favour fills the swelling sails, But would forsake the ship and make the shore, When the winds whistle and the tempests roar? No, Henry, no one sacred oath has tied Our loves; one destiny our life shall guide, Nor wild, nor deep, our common way divide. When from the cave thou risest with the day, To beat the woods and rouse the bounding prey, The cave with moss and branches I'll adorn, And cheerful sit to wait my lord's return: And when thou frequent bring'st the smitten deer, (For seldom, archers say, thy arrows err)

}

I'll fetch quick fuel from the neighbouring wood,
And strike the sparkling flint, and dress the food:
With humble duty and officious haste

I'll cull the furthest mead for thy repast;
The choicest herbs I to thy board will bring,
And draw thy water from the freshest spring:
And when at night, with weary toil oppress'd,
Soft slumbers thou enjoy'st and wholesome rest,
Watchful I'll guard thee, and with midnight prayer
Weary the gods to keep thee in their care;
And joyous ask, at morn's returning ray,
If thou hast health, and I may bless the day.
My thoughts shall fix, my latest wish depend
On thee, guide, guardian, kinsman, father, friend:
By all these sacred names be Henry known
To Emma's heart; and, grateful, let him own
That she, of all mankind, could love but him alone.