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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,
Has the ghost of my Allen your company join'd,
Or is he in Death's narrow cavern confined?

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 ;
Before the rude blast then, she hurries away,
Crying out, as she grasps at the moon's feeble

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.






The red sun was set, and the evening gun

Had smoked o'er the camp-coyered green ;
The night-roll was answer'd, the tattoo was done,

In slumber the soldiers were seen;
Unbraced was the guard-drum, and laid on the ground,

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,
Its hands on its breast seem'd in sorrow to lay,

And mournfully made this reply :-
My kinsmen, my subjects, the shade of your King,

Who by a base banditti fell,
And manes of martyrs that round you do wing,

Forbid you repeat, ' All is Well.'

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“ 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 ?
Bid farewell to friends, and adieu to the fair,

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;
His crimes are the register stained with blood

Posted up on the corners of heaven.
And when the fiend's flush'd with his butch’ry abroad,

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 ;
Nor longer support the worst foes of the state,

Your blood and your treasure to waste.
Then call home the far scatter'd sheep to their dam,

And give the right wedder the bell;
Your King and your holy confessors will then

Assist you in saying . All's Well.'

A cock crew, the spirit dispersed in the air,

Fleet flashing from pole unto pole ;

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