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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

day?
The village maidens of the plain

Salute me lowly as I go;
Envious, they mark my silken train,

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.

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"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.
· Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still ;
And though my portion is but scant,

I give it with good will. " Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing, and repose.
“No flocks that range the valley free

To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that Power that pities me,

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."
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,

His gentle accents fell ;
The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,

And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch

Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,

Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimmed his little fire,

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.

"Rule,” &c.

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!"

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OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

1728--1774.

THE HERMIT.

"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 cricket chirrups in the hearth,

The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the stranger's woe,
For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spied,

With answering care opprest: "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,

The sorrows of thy breast?
"From better habitations spurned,

Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturned,

Or unregarded love?
“Alas! the joys that fortune brings

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-
A shade that follows wealth or fame,

But leaves the wretch to weep.
“And love is still an emptier sound,

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.
Surprised he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view
Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms;
The lovely stranger stands confest

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.
"To win me from his tender arms

Unnumbered suitors came,
Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feigned, a flame.
'Each hour a mercenary crowd

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.
· And when, beside me in the dale,

He carolled lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale

And music to the grove.
“The blossom opening to the day,

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.

ON

“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:
The wondering fair one turned to chide-

'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.

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It was not in the battle,

No tempest gave the shock,
She sprang no fatal leak,

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,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second Spring.
Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen

Full many a sprightly race
Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace;
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,

Or urge the flying ball?
While some on earnest business bent,

Their murmuring labours ply, 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possessed ;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

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.
Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see, how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,

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,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,

And Sorrow's piercing dart.

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THOMAS GRAY.

1716—1771.

ODE ON A DISTANT VIEW OF

ETON COLLEGE.

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

among
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:
Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain!
Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

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