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"My spirits flag-my hopes decayStill that dread death-bell strikes my
ear, And many a boding seems to saye,
'Countess, prepare--thy end is near.'" Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear, Full many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.
And ere the dawn of day appeared,
In Cumnor Hall so long and drear; Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.
The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aërial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped his wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.
“'Mong rural beauties I was one:
Among the fields wild flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have
won, And thought my beauty passing rare. “But, Leicester (or I much am wrong),
Or 'tis not beauty fires thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. "Then, Leicester, why, again I plead
(The injured surely may repine), Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair princess might be thine ? "Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
And, oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave me to mourn the live-long
Salute me lowly as I go;
Nor think a countess can have woe.
The mastiff howled at village door,
The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour-for never more
That hapless countess e'er was seen!
And in that manor now no more
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Čumnor Hall.
The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; Nor ever lead the merry dance
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
"The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy's their estate, To smile for joy, than sigh for woe, —
To be content, than to be great.
Full many a traveller oft hath sighed,
And pensive wept the countess' fall. As wandering onward they've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.
“How far less blest am I than them,
Daily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.
"For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slowWhere wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.' “ Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
* To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
My door is open still ;
I give it with good will. " Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My blessing, and repose.
To slaughter I condemn;
I learn to pity them: “But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bringA scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring. "Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong; Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
His gentle accents fell ;
And follows to the cell.
The lonely mansion lay;
And strangers led astray.
Required a master's care;
Received the harmless pair.
To take their evening rest,
And cheered his pensive guest.
To thee belongs the rural reign ;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine: All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine.
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair : Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. “Rule, Britannia, rule the waves;
Britons never will be slaves!"
"TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily pressed, and smiled; And, skilled in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The crackling faggot flies.
To soothe the stranger's woe,
And tears began to flow.
With answering care opprest: "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
“The sorrows of thy breast?
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or unregarded love?
Are trifling, and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things
More trifling still than they. “And what is friendship but a name?
A charm that lulls to sleep-
But leaves the wretch to weep.
The modern fair one's jest; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest.
[hush, “ For shame, fond youth! thy sorrows
And spurn the sex," he said; But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betrayed.
Swift mantling to the view
As bright, as transient too.
Alternate spread alarms;
A maid in all her charms.
“My father lived beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he, And all his wealth was marked as mine:
He had but only me.
Unnumbered suitors came,
And felt, or feigned, a flame.
With richest proffers strove; Amongst the rest young Edwin bowed,
But never talked of love. "In humble simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he: Wisdom and worth were all he had
But these were all to me.
He carolled lays of love,
And music to the grove.
The dews of heaven refined, Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind. “The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his; but, woe is me!
Their constancy was mine.
“For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain; And while his passion touched my heart,
I triumphed in his pain; “Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride, And sought a solitude forlorn
In secret, where he died. “But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay: I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay; “And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die; 'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I." "Forbid it, heaven!" the Hermit cried,
And clasped her to his breast:
'Twas Edwin's self that pressed!
“ And ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn," she cried, " Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.
“But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to strayWho seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
It was not in the battle,
No tempest gave the shock,
She ran upon no rock. * The "Royal George," 108 guns, was lost off Spithead on the 29th of August, 1782. She was undergoing some repairs, and was careened over, when a sudden gust of wind overset her and she sank. A great number of persons were on board at the time from Portsmouth. Two or three hundred bodies floated on shore, and were buried in Kingston churchyard.
Sweet were his words when last we met;
My passion I as freely told him ; Clasped in his arms, I little thought
That I should never more behold him.
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend
And givea doleful groan through Yarrow. His mother from the window looked,
With all the longing of a mother; His little sister, weeping, walked
The greenwood path to meet her brother. They sought him east, they sought himwest,
They sought him all the forest thorough: They only saw the clouds of night,
They only heard the roar of Yarrow.
No longer from thy window look
Thou hast no son, thou tender mother; No longer walk, thou lovely maid,
Alas, thou hast no more a brother!
No longer seek him east or west,
No longer search the forest thorough; For, murdered in the night so dark,
He lies a lifeless corse in Yarrow !
The tears shall never leave my cheek,
No other youth shall be my marrow; I'll seek thy body in the stream,
And there with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
The tear did never leave her cheek,
No other youth became her marrow; She found his body in the stream,
And with him now she sleeps in Yarrow.
As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
To breathe a second Spring.
Full many a sprightly race
The paths of pleasure trace;
The captive linnet which enthral?
Or urge the flying ball?
Their murmuring labours ply, 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty:
And unknown regions dare descry:
And snatch a fearful joy.
Less pleasing when possessed ;
The sunshine of the breast. Their buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer, of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.
The little victims play;
Nor care beyond to-day:
And black Misfortune's baleful train ! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 'To seize their prey, the murderous band,
Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
And Shame that skulks behind;
That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And Sorrow's piercing dart.
ODE ON A DISTANT VIEW OF
YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat'ry glade, Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers
His silver-winding way:
Ah, fields beloved in vain!
A stranger yet to pain!