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Why hears not now? What fairer grove
From * Harewood lures her devious love ?
What fairer grove

than Harewood knows,
More woodland walks, more fragrant gales,
More woodbine bowers, inviting soft repose,
More streams flow-wand'ring thro' her winding vales.

III.
Perhaps to some lone cave the Rover Aies,
Where lulld in pious peace the hermit lies.

For scorning oft the gorgeous hall,

Where banners wave with blazon'd gold, There will the meek-ey'd nymph delight to call, And with the folemn seer high converse hold.

IV.
There, goddess, on the shaggy mound,
Where tumbling torrents roar around,
Where pendant mountains o'er your head
Stretch their formidable fhade ;
You listen, while the holy feer
Slowly chaunts his vespers clear;
Or of his sparing mess partake,
The fav'ry pulfe, the wheaten cake,
The bev'rage cool of limpid rill.

Then, rising light, your host you bless,
And o'er his faintly temples bland distill
Seraphic day-dreams of heav'ns happiness.

ATHELWOLD's castle.

V.
Where'er thou art, enchanting maid,
Thou soon wilt smile in Harewood's shade:
Soon will thy fairy feet be seen,
Printing this dew-impearled green ;
Soon shall we mark thy gestures meek,
Thy glitt'ring eye, and dimpled cheek,
What time thou seek'st, with willing hafte,
Thy loveliest throne, ELFRIDA's breast.
There seated on that iv'ry shrine,

Where all the Loves and Graces lye,
With them your hands shall mutual chaplets twine,
And weave immortal wreaths of peace and joy.

VIr
And, hark, compleating our prophetic strain,
The fleet hoof rattles o'er the flinty plain ;

Now nearer, and now nearer sounds.

Avaunt ! ye vain, delufive fears. Hark! Echo tells thro'Harewood'sampleft bounds, That Love, Content, and athELWOLD appears.

CHORUS III.

ON CONSTAN C Y..

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I.
Whence does this sudden lustre rise,
That gilds the grove? not like the noon-time beam

Which sparkling dances on the trembling stream, Nor the blue lightning's fash swift-shooting thro' the skies.

But such a solemn steady light,

As oe'r the cloudless azure steals,
When Cynthia riding on the brow of night,
Stops in their mid career her silver wheels.

II.
Whence can it rise but from the fober pow'r

Of CONSTANCY? she, heav'n-born queen
Descends, and in this * woodbine-vested bower

Fixes her stedfast reign :
Stedfast, as when her high command

Gives to the starry band
Their radiant stations in heav'n's ample plain.

* In which Athelwold and ELFRIDA had been just exchanging professions of their mutual fidelity.

Stedfast, as when around this nether sphere,

She winds the purple year.
Tells what time the snow-drop cold
Its maiden whiteness may unfold,
When the golden harvest bend,
When the ruddy fruits descend.
Then bids pale Winter wake to pour

The pearly hail's translucent show'r,
To cast his silv'ry mantle o'er the woods,
And bind in crystal chains the Numb'ring floods.

III.
The foul, which she inspires, has pow'r to climb

To all the heights sublime

Of Virtue's tow'ring hill. That hill, at whose low feet weak-warb'ling strays

The scanty stream of human praise,

A shallow trickling rill. While on the summits hov'ring angels fhed, From their bleft pinions, the nectareous dews, Of rich immortal Fame: from these the muse Oft steals some precious drops, and blends with art

With those the lower streams impart ; Then show'rs it all on some high-favor'd head. But thou, ELFRIDA, claim'st the genuine dew;

Thy worth demands it all, Pure, and unmixt on thee the sacred drops shall fall.

CHORUS IV.

ATHELWOLD SUSPECTS THE

CONSTANCY OF ELFRIDA.

I.
Say, will no white-rob'd son of light,
Swift-darting from his heav'nly height,

Here deign to take his hallow'd stand ;
Here wave his amber locks, unfold

His pinions cloath'd with downy gold;
Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand ?
And you, ye host of saints, for

ye

have known Each dreary path in life's perplexing maze, Tho' now ye

circle

yon eternal throne With harpings high of inexpressive praise,

Will not your train descend in radiant state,
To break with Mercy's beam this gathering cloud
of fate?

II.
'Tis filence all. No son of light
Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height.

No train of radiant saints descend.
“ Mortals, in vain ye hope to find,
“ If guilt, if fraud have stain'd your

mind,
Or saint to hear, or angel to defend."

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