Nay, hear me further— When we view'd that dell, Where lie those ruins— you must know it well—* When ihat worn pediment your walk delay'd,

And the stream gushing through the arch decay'd;

When at the venerable pile you stood,

Till the does ventured on our solitude,

We were so still! before the growing day

Call'd us reluctant from our seat away—

Tell me, was all the feeling you express'd

The genuine feeling of my Emma's breast?

Or was it borrow'd, that her faithful slave

The higher notion of her taste might have?

So may I judge, for of that lovely scene

The married Emma has no witness been;

No more beheld that water, falling, flow

Through the green fern that there delights to grow.

Once more permit me— Well, I know, you feel* For suffering men, and would their sufferings heal, But when at certain huts you chose to call,

At certain seasons, was compassion all?