No. XXXVI.

MARGARET'S GHOST.

MALLET.

'TWAS at the silent solemn hour,
When night and morning meet,
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud;

And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear,
When youth and years are flown:
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,

That sips the silver dew;

The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,

Consumed her early prime:

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;

She died before her time.

-"Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls,

"Come from her midnight grave;

"Now let thy pity hear the maid

"This is the dark and dreary hour,
"When injured ghosts complain;
Now yawning graves give up their dead,
"To haunt the faithless swain.

"Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,

Thy pledge, and broken oath ;

"And give me back my

"And give me back

maiden vow,

my troth.

66

Why did

་

you promise love to me,

"And not that promise keep?

Why did

you swear mine eyes were bright,

"Yet leave those eyes to weep?

"How could you say my face was fair,

"And yet that face forsake?

"How could you win my virgin heart, "Yet leave that heart to break?

"Why did you say my lip was sweet, "And made the scarlet pale?

"And why did I, young witless maid, "Believe the flattering tale?

"That face, alas! no more is fair; "These lips no longer red:

“Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, every charm is fled.

" And

"The hungry worm my sister is;

"This winding sheet I wear:

"And cold and weary

lasts our night,

"Till that last morn appear.

"But hark! the cock has warn'd me hence!

"A long and last adieu!

"Come see, false man, how low she lies "Who died for love of you."

The lark sung loud, the morning smiled
With beams of rosy red;

Pale William shook in every limb,
And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place,

Where Margaret's body lay;

And stretch'd him on the

grass-green turf,

That wrapt her breathless clay.

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,

And thrice he wept full sore;

Then laid his cheek to her cold

grave,

And word spake never more.

No. XXXVII.

THE HERMIT.

PARNELL.

FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend Hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well:
Remote from men, with God he pass'd the days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.

A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd heav'n itself, till one suggestion rose; That Vice should triumph, Virtue Vice obey, This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway: His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenour of his soul is lost : So, when a smooth expanse receives impress'd Calm nature's image on its watery breast,