COLIN AND LUCY.

A BALLAD*.

OF Leinster, famed for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so sweet a face :

Till luckless love, and pining care,
Impair'd her rosy hue,

Her coral lips, and damask'd cheeks,
And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh, have you seen a lily pale,

When beating rains descend?

So droop'd the slow-consuming maid,
Her life now near its end.
By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains
Take heed, ye easy fair:
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjured swains, beware.

Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring;
And shrieking at her window thrice,
The raven flapp'd his wing.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound:
And thus, in dying words, bespoke
The virgins weeping round:

"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says, I must not stay;

I see a hand you cannot see,

Which beckons me away.

By a false heart, and broken vows,
In early youth I die :
Was I to blame, because his bride
Was thrice as rich as I?

[* Through all Tickell's works there is a strain of balladthinking, if I may so express it; and in this professed ballad he seems to have surpassed himself. It is, perhaps, the best in our language in this way.-GOLDSMITH.

I always thought Tickell's ballad the prettiest in the world.-GRAY to Walpole.]

"Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,

Vows due to me alone:
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.
To-morrow, in the church to wed,
Impatient, both prepare!

But know, fond maid; and know, false man,
That Lucy will be there!

"Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear, This bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding-trim so gay,

I in my winding-sheet."

She spoke; she died; her corse was borne,
The bridegroom blithe to meet,
He in his wedding-trim so gay,

She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts?
How were these nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell:

The damps of death bedew'd his brow,
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride, ah, bride no more!
The varying crimson fled,

When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,
She saw her husband dead.
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,

Convey'd by trembling swains,

One mould with her, beneath one sod,
For ever he remains.

Oft at his grave the constant hind

And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the sacred green;

But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

While calmly poor I trifle life away, Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, But, cheaply bless'd, I'll scorn each vain desire. himself with being so little an original." "I question," he adds in another place, "whether they had taken without the interest of his genteel acquaintance, or indeed if the author had not died precedently." What has been said of Kirke White, that consumption and Southey have been the salvation of his verse, is more true when said of Hammond, of disease and Lord Chesterfield.]

BB

With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand,
Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range my sheaves along the sunny land.

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast! Or, lull'd to slumber by the beating rain, Secure and happy, sink at last to rest!

Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my Delia, walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur as they glide away!

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on Delia as I go !
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!

Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown ;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia and myself alone.

Hers be the care of all my little train, While I with tender indolence am blest, The favourite subject of her gentle reign, By love alone distinguish'd from the rest.

For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock;
For her, a goat-herd, climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock :

Ah, what avails to press the stately bed,
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,
By marble fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep!
Delia alone can please, and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight;
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows through every night:

Beauty and worth in her alike contend,
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind;
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.

On her I'll gaze, when others' loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand-
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill,
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still:
Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart;
Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part:
Let them, extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corse in melancholy state,
Through all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

"FOR Shame," said Ebony, "for shame!
Tom Ruby, troth, you're much to blame,
To drink at this confounded rate,
To guzzle thus, early and late."

Poor Tom, who just had took his whet,
And at the door his uncle met,
Surprised and thunder-struck, would fain
Make his escape, but, oh! in vain

Each blush that glow'd with an ill grace,
Lighted the flambeaux in his face;
No loop-hole left, no slight pretence,
To palliate the foul offence.

[* Somervile's estate was part in Warwickshire and part in Gloucestershire. He must have been born before 1692, if there is any truth in the assertions of song, for among his works is an epistle to Aikman the painter, "on his painting a full-length portrait of the author in the decline of life, carrying him back, by the assistance of another portrait, to his youthful days," wherein he says that he is then passed his zenith, and

All the poor comfort that I now can share,
Is the soft blessing of an elbow-chair-

which if his biographers tell the truth must have been said of himself when thirty-eight, for Aikman was dead early in 1731. Shenstone, moreover, imputes his foibles to age: the foibles of fifty are not the follies of age. "The Chase," the monument to his name, was first published in the May of 1735. His portrait is at Lord Somerville's, and engraved before the Memoirs of the Somervilles-a very extraordinary performance; a portion of the debt due by the public to Sir Walter Scott. He was, we are told by Lady Luxborough, "of a very fair complexion," and he describes himself in one of his rhyming effusions to Ramsay, as

A squire well-born and six foot high. "Whatever," says Shenstone," the world might esteem in poor Somervile, I really find upon critical inquiry, that I loved him for nothing so much as his flocci-naucinihili-pili-fication of money." A happiness of expression used more than once by its author.]

"I own (said he) I'm very bad-
A sot-incorrigibly mad-
But, sir-I thank you for your love,
And by your lectures would improve :
Yet, give me leave to say, the street
For conference is not so meet.
Here, in this room-nay, sir, come in—
Expose, chastise me for my sin;
Exert each trope, your utmost art,
To touch this senseless, flinty heart.
I'm conscious of my guilt, 'tis true,
But yet I know my frailty too;
A slight rebuke will never do.
Urge home my faults-come in, I pray—
Let not my soul be cast away."

Wise Ebony, who deem'd it good T'encourage by all means he could These first appearances of grace, Follow'd up stairs, and took his place. The bottle and the crust appear'd, And wily Tom demurely sneer'd. "My duty, sir!"-" Thank you, kind Tom.""Again, an't please you."-"Thank you: Come." "Sorrow is dry-I must once more-" "Nay, Tom, I told you at the door

I would not drink-what! before dinner?
Not one glass more, as I'm a sinner-
Come, to the point in hand; is't fit
A man of your good sense and wit
Those parts which Heaven bestow'd should drown,
A but to all the sots in town?
Why, tell me, Tom-what fort can stand
(Though regular, and bravely mann'd)
If night and day the fierce foe plies
With never-ceasing batteries;
Will there not be a breach at last?"—
"Uncle, 'tis true-forgive what's past."

"But if nor interest, nor fame,
Nor health, can your dull soul reclaim,
Hast not a conscience, man? no thought
Of an hereafter? dear are bought
These sensual pleasures."-" I relent,
Kind sir-but give your zeal a vent-'
Then, pouting, hung his head; yet still
Took care his uncle's glass to fill,
Which as his hurried spirits sunk,
Unwittingly, good man! he drunk.
Each pint, alas! drew on the next,
Old Ebony stuck to his text,
Grown warm, like any angel spoke,
Till intervening hiccups broke
The well-strung argument. Poor Tom
Was now too forward to reel home;
That preaching still, this still repenting,
Both equally to drink consenting,
Till both brimful could swill no more,
And fell dead drunk upon the floor.

Bacchus, the jolly god, who sate Wide-straddling o'er his tun in state, Close by the window side, from whence He heard this weighty conference;

Joy kindling in his ruddy cheeks,
Thus the indulgent godhead speaks:
"Frail mortals, know, reason in vain
Rebels, and would disturb my reign.
See there the sophister o'erthrown,
With stronger arguments knock'd down
Than e'er in wrangling schools were known!
The wine that sparkles in this glass
Smoothes every brow, gilds every face:
As vapours when the sun appears,
Far hence anxieties and fears:
Grave ermine smiles, lawn sleves grow gay,
Each haughty monarch owns my sway,
And cardinals and popes obey:
Even Cato drank his glass, 'twas I
Taught the brave patriot how to die
For injured Rome and liberty;
"Twas I who with immmortal lays
Inspired the bard that sung his praise.
Let dull unsociable fools

Loll in their cells, and live by rules;
My votaries, in gay delight

And mirth, shall revel all the night;
Act well their parts on life's dull stage,
And make each moment worth an age.'

YES, happy youths, on Camus' sedgy side,
You feel each joy that friendship can divide;
Each realm of science and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
To raise the genius, or the heart to mend ;
Now pleased along the cloister'd walk you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where social oft, and oft alone, ye chuse
To catch the zephyr, and to court the muse.
Meantime at me (while all devoid of art
These lines give back the image of my heart)
At me the power that comes or soon or late,
Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate;
From you remote, methinks, alone I stand,
Like some sad exile in a desert land;
Around no friends their lenient care to join
In mutual warmth, and mix their hearts with mine.
Or real pains, or those which fancy raise,
For ever blot the sunshine of my days;
To sickness still, and still to grief a prey,
Health turns from me her face
rosy

away.

Just heaven! what sin ere life begins to bloom, Devotes my head untimely to the tomb?

Did e'er this hand against a brother's life
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murderous knife!
Did e'er this tongue the slanderer's tale proclaim,
Or madly violate my Maker's name?

Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,
Or know a thought but all the world might know!
As yet just started from the lists of time,
My growing years have scarcely told their prime;
Useless, as yet, through life I've idly run,
No pleasures tasted, and few duties done.
Ah, who, ere autumn's mellowing suns appear,
Would pluck the promise of the vernal year;
Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude cluster from the mourning spray!
Stern Power of Fate, whose ebon sceptre rules
The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools,

* An imitation of Elegy V. 3rd book of Tibullus-This poem was written by this interesting youth at the age of twenty. [West's poems are very few in number, and those few are chiefly exercises in Latin. There is a fine vein of tender feeling throughout this poem, and though the thoughts are from Tibullus and Pope, yet they are borrowed in no common way; with that kind of liberality which gives a return for what it steals. We may add here what is not at all generally known, that Tom Hearne's Reply to Time is one of young West's felicitous effusions.]

Forbear, nor rashly smite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart ;

Ah, stay till age shall blast my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing shade shall go.
How weak is man to Reason's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die ;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire.
In vain our plans of happiness we raise,
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise;
Wealth, lineage, honours, conquest, or a throne,
Are what the wise would fear to call their own.
Health is at best a vain precarious thing,
And fair-faced youth is ever on the wing;
'Tis like the stream beside whose watery bed,
Some blooming plant exalts his flowery head;
Nursed by the wave the spreading branches rise,
Shade all the ground and flourish to the skies;
The waves the while beneath in secret flow,
And undermine the hollow bank below;
Wide and more wide the waters urge their way,
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey.

Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride, And sinks, untimely, in the whelming tide.

But why repine? Does life deserve my sigh; Few will lament my loss whene'er I die. For those the wretches I despise or hate,

I neither envy nor regard their fate.

For me, whene'er all-conquering Death shall spread

His wings around my unrepining head,

I care not; though this face be seen no more,
The world will pass as cheerful as before;
Bright as before the day-star will appear,
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear;
Nor storms nor comets will my doom declare,
Nor signs on earth nor portents in the air;
Unknown and silent will depart my breath,
Nor Nature e'er take notice of my death.
Yet some there are (ere spent my vital days)
Within whose breasts my tomb I wish to raise.
Loved in my life, lamented in my end,

Their praise would crown me as their precepts mend:

To them may these fond lines my name endear, Not from the Poet but the Friend sincere.