LOVE'S VICTIMS: THE HERMIT's STORY, CANTO II

O'er wilds, unmark'd by human tread, We took our vent'rous flight; Yet was not Hope's last ember dead, Though pal'd its fainting light.

If aught, amid those desert plains, By Nature's hand bestow'd, Might temper thirst's unceasing pains, Or yield sustaining food,

Perchance the safe and friendly coast, Our toiling steps might gain, Where Britain's sons, with envied boast, In British freedom reign.

Far swell'd the gale with murm'ring sound, And fill'd our hearts with dread; We cast a fearful look around, And, trembling, swifter fled.

Now o'er the earth the closing night Her sable veil had thrown; Nor yet had our disastrous flight Or rest or solace known.

Sudden, my Emma's bursting tears In copious torrents fell; "Sweet Love!" I cried," these gloomy fears "Let brighter hope dispel!"

"No fears," her falt'ring voice replied, "My constant soul invade; "Where'er we wander, by thy side "I wander undismay'd.

"Yet, 'midst the shades of night secure, "Escap'd from ev'ry eye, "(No more these feeble limbs endure—) "Ah! cease awhile to fly!"

Fainting she spoke; with eager haste My hands her couch prepare: But what, amid that dreary waste, Avail'd a lover's care!

Yet on the ground my garments laid, Her tender form enclose; "And mine the welcome task," I said, "To watch o'er thy repose!

"Parent of mercy, from thy hand "The streams of comfort pour! "Let balmy sleep, at thy command, "Her wasted strength restore!"

Great God, who hear'st the suppliant's cry, And calm'st the wretch's pain, Why, in that hour of agony, Were breath'd my pray'rs in vain!