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Or has the cruel hand of fate
Alas, for BOTH, I weep.
And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears, At once the source of rapture and distress,
The flattering prop of my declining years! In vain from death to rescue I essay'd,
By every art that science could devise;
: Af evening's peaceful hour,
And Breathe our sorrows in this lonely bower.
But why, alas ! to thee complain!
The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring
But O for me in vain may seasons roll,
Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears, Deploring still the COMFORT OP MY SOUL,
I count my sorrows by increasing years.
Tell me, thou syren Hope, deceiver, say,
Where is the promised period of my woes? Full three long, lingering years have roll'd away, And yet I weep, a stranger to repose :
O what delusion did thy tongue employ! “ That Emma's fatal pledge of love,
“ Her last bequest with all a mother's care, « The bitterness of sorrow should remove, “ Soften the horrors of despair,
" And chear a heart long lost to joy?" How oft, when fondling in mine arms,
Gazing enraptured on its angel-face,
My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace, And burn with all a father's fond alarms ! And O what flattering scenes had Fancy feign'd,
How did I rave of blessings yet in store ! Till every aching sense was sweetly paind, And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could
utter more. “ Just Heaven," I cry'd-with recent hopes elate,
" Yet I will live-will live, thoug Emma's
“ So long bow'd down beneath the storms of Fate,
“Yet will I raise my woe-dejected head! “ My little Emma, now my ALL,
" Will want a father's care, “. Her looks, her wants my rash resolves recall,
“ And for her sake the ills of life I'll bear: “ And oft together we'll complain,
“Complaint, the only bliss my soul can know, “ From me my child shall learn the mournful strain, “ And prattle tales of woe;
“ And O in that auspicious hour,
“ When Fate resigns her persecuting power; • With duteous zeal her hand shall close,
“ No more to weep-my sorrow streaming eyes, • When death gives misery repose,
“ And opes a glorious passage to the skies.”
Vain thought! it must not be She too is dead
The flattering scene is o'er
And vengeance can no more.-
And none-none left to bear a friendly part !
Or soothe the anguish of an aching heart ! Now ail one gloomy scene, till welcome death,
Willen ent nand (O falsly deem'd severe)
Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath,
And dry up every tear:
But ah from my affections far removed !
As if, unconscious of poetick fire,
Yet—while this weary life shall last,
And dwell with fond delay on blessings past:
And raise esteem upon the base of woe !
Shall deign my love-lorn tale to hear, Shall catch the soft contagion of my song, And
pay the pensiye Muse the tribute of a tear.
* Lord Lyttleton.
An Irish Gentleman, father to the Right Honourable George
Lord Epistle from Lord William Russel to William
Cavendish, supposed to have been written by Lord Russel, on Friday night, July 20, 1806, in Newgate.
Lost to the world, to-morrow doom'd to die,