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His Lady, ever fashionably gay,
Walks much abroad, her trappings to display ;
But lest her health should in the town be lost,
They take up summer lodgings on the coast.
And though the Largs is thirty miles from town,
Yet Gilbert once a week must coach it down:
His aim is Pleasure, and it marks his stay,
Though Prudence would forbid a single day.
In winter time, like other gentry, they
Visit the panorama, show and play ;
A Brother Mason master Gilbert's made,
And such profound respect to him is paid,
His home, his business, and each former friend,
He now neglects, these meetings to attend.

Who has not seen the youth imprudent fa', With prospect pleasant in life's morning daw?? And who has not heard Gib's old cronies say, That he would coup some not far distant day? That his short hour of pleasure soon would run, Like midge's flutter in the setting sun ? That poverty would then perhaps restore Some folk to mind that he ance kent before,

Whose turn it then would be, in haughty state,
Upon his feelings to retaliate ?

Far was it now beyond his utmost power,
To ward away the unpropitious hour;
And as the block, descending from the brae,
Still more impetuous grows upon its way,
So Gilbert's downfal seem'd to gather force,
By being unretarded in its course.

How changed his manners, and how changed his

Now trembling still if in the public seen!
Regardless quite, his siller he made flee,
Oft in the worst of baneful company;
Till claise, and cash, and credit, all were done,
His shop

he kent not where to run.
One windy night, he thought the shutters clapping
Were beagles come to apprebend him, rapping;
Stark naked up, wild raving through his sleep,
He rose and cried, “ The devil shan't me keep!"
Then out the window, with an awful rair,
Headlong he leapt, and ne'er was heard of mair!

shut up,


Such is the fate that will at length betide The wight, that wont take Prudence for his guide ; Delusive pleasure, like a Siren coy, He finds at last, sings only to destroy.




Yon maid have you witness’d, with countenance pale,

That o'er the wild common does flee?
Her sighs are augmenting the murmuring gale,
As she tells to the trav’ller a heart-rending tale,

Of the tomb by the green willow tree.

Ah! passenger, doubt not the truth of these strains ;

The wild-looking maniac in view,
Is Fanny, so lately the pride of these plains ;-
Though artfully flattered by many young swains,

She ever to Allen was true.

To school as they went, hand in hand, by the way

He often proclaimed her his wife; The villagers, smiling to see them, did say, “ That they would together, on some distant day,

Be joined in wedlock for life.”

But Ah! the wise Power that fixes the doom

Of mortals, forebade it to be;
An order from heaven soon blasted his bloom,
He died, and the tablet emboss'd on his tomb

Is raised by the green willow tree.

The sorrow, which suddenly seiz'd on her soul,

Was boundless and wild as the wave; Each night, though appalld by the wild screaming owl, Though winds through the old ruin'd chapel did howl,

She went and she wept by his grave.

Alone to the churchyard, so wild and so drear,

Her friends still forbade her to go; But grief in her bosom was stronger than fear : Her words were, “ All pleasure is gone from me here,

Than life I have no other foe."

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