‘For still I try’d each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch’d my heart, I triumph’d in his pain.
‘Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret where he died.
‘But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I’ll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay.
‘And there forlorn despairing hid, I’ll lay me down and die: ‘Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.’
‘Forbid it heaven!’ the hermit cry’d, And clasp’d her to his breast: The wondering fair one turn’d to chide, ‘Twas Edwin’s self that prest.
‘Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see, Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor’d to love and thee.
‘Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev’ry care resign: And shall we never, never part, My life,—my all that’s mine.
‘No, never, from this hour to part, We’ll live and love so true; The sigh that tends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin’s too.’
While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and immediately after a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take up