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Thus frantic and fearless, at midnight she goes
O'er the grass-covered graves of the dead; And under the green willow vented her woes, Where the tomb of poor Allen before her arose,
With wild blooming tansy o'erspread.'
Religiously, thrice had she bended her knee,
And moistened the mould with her tears; Then raising her eyes to the stars, loudly she Proclaimed, “. If the souls of true lovers ye be,
My Allen's the brightest appears.
“ Ye spirits convened on the wings of the wind,
In night's mirkest mantle array'd,
Poor Fanny's forgot, I'm afraid.
“ Yes, yes, he is with you; I hear from on high
The sound of his sorrow for me ; There, there flies the bright killing glance of his eye, I feel his cold tears as they fall from the sky;
O Allen ! I will follow thee.”
As morning approaches, with prospect serene,
Of flowers that grow on his grave, Entwining love-garlands, she always is seen; But sadly sequester'd, she scuds o'er the green,
When loud is the blast on the wave.
If any one meet her, a moment she'll stay
To tell the sad cause of her pain ;
ray, “ Heaven's rampart I'll scale to my swain!" .
This is the poor mortal, with countenance pale,
Who o'er the wild common doth flee; Whose sighs are augmenting the murmuring gale, As she tells the traveller a heart-rending tale,
Of the tomb by the green willow tree.
GHOST OF LOUIS SIXTEENTH,
INCAMPED ON THE HEIGHTS OF BOLOGNE.
The red sun was set, and the evening gun
Had smoked o'er the camp-coyered green ;
In slumber the soldiers were seen;
The bugle was hung in the bell; Nor word of command was there heard, nor a sound,
Till round the lines echo'd, “ All's Well!"
As died the report of the warders away,
A spectre that hover'd on high,
And mournfully made this reply :-
Who by a base banditti fell,
Forbid you repeat, ' All is Well.'
“ How can ye rejoice in our family's fall,
A thousand years placed on your throne ? And how can ye tamely submit to the call
Of one to you lately unknown? Will Frenchmen, whose forefathers fought for our
crown, The deeds of their fathers repel ? And at this dread hour, when we stalk
and down, Insult us by saying, All's Well ??
“ Will ye for an alien, my countrymen, dare
To take yon green isle of the main ?
Ye ne'er will behold them again.
If these islanders take you upon th' dark waves,
They will sink you all in the swell; If you land, they victorious will vaunt o'er your graves,
And your dirges will be, “ All is well.'
“Ah! how can ye pray for success to our God?
Your leader will ne'er be forgiv'n;
Posted up on the corners of heaven.
The day of his birth keep in hell ; His effigy there, with a red iron rod,
They flog, and roar round it, “All's Well.'
“ This foe of mankind, from our sanctified seat,
To earth, O! my countrymen, haste ;
Your blood and your treasure to waste.
And give the right wedder the bell;
Assist you in saying . All's Well.'
A cock crew, the spirit dispersed in the air,
Fleet flashing from pole unto pole ;