"And sure the dawning ray that lights the steep, "And slowly wanders o'er the purple wave; "Will shew me where his sacred relics sleep, "Will lead his mourner to her destin'd grave.-- O'er the high precipice unmov'd she bent, A fearful path the beams of morning shew, The pilgrim reach'd with toil the rude ascent, And saw her brooding o'er the deep below. "Euphelia stay! he cried, thy Alfred calls-- "Oh stay, my love! in sorrow yet more dear, "I come!"--In vain the soothing accent falls, Alas, it reach'd not her distracted ear. "Ah, what avails, she said, that morning rose? "With fruitless pain I seek his mould'ring clay; "Vain search! to fill the measure of my woes, "The foaming surge has wash'd his corse away. "This cruel agony why longer bear? "Death, death alone can all my pangs remove; "Kind death will banish from my heart despair, "And when I live again--I live to love!"-- She said, and plung'd into the awful deep-- He saw her meet the fury of the wave; He frantic saw! and darting to the steep With desp'rate anguish, sought her wat'ry grave. He clasp'd her dying form, he shar'd her sighs, He check'd the billow rushing on her breast; She felt his dear embrace--her closing eyes Were fix'd on Alfred, and her death was blest.-- SONNET, To EXPRESSION. Expression, child of soul! I fondly trace Thy strong enchantments, when the poet's lyre, The painter's pencil catch thy sacred fire, And beauty wakes for thee her touching grace-- But from this frighted glance thy form avert When horrors check thy tear, thy struggling sigh, When frenzy rolls in thy impassion'd eye, Or guilt sits heavy on thy lab'ring heart-- Nor ever let my shudd'ring fancy bear The wasting groan, or view the pallid look Of him[A] the Muses lov'd--when hope forsook His spirit, vainly to the Muses dear! For charm'd with heav'nly song, this bleeding breast, Mourns the blest power of verse could give despair no rest.-- [A] Chatterton. THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's Poems (1786), Volume I., by Helen Maria Williams