Her bloom was like the springing flow'r
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
And opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consum'd 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
Thy love refus'd to save:

This is the dark and fearful hour

When injur'd ghosts complain:
Now dreary 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 maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.
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?

How could you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?
Why did you swear my eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep?

How could 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,
That lip no longer red;

Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
And every charm is fled.

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
That died for love of you.

Now birds did sing, and Morning smil'd,
And show'd her glittering head;
Pale William shook in every limb,
Then, raving, left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margret's body lay,
And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf
That wrapt her breathless clay :

And thrice he call'd on Marg'ret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to the cold earth,
And word spoke never more.

§ 136. Lucy and Colin.

OF Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so fair a face;

Till luckless love, and pining care,
Impair'd her rosy hue,

Her coral lips and damask cheeks,
And eyes of glossy blue.

O have you seen a lily pale,

When beating rains descend? So droop'd the slow-consuming maid, Her life now near its end.

By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains
Take heed, ye easy fair;

Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjur'd swains, beware.
Three times, all in the dead of night,

A bell was heard to ring,
And, shrieking at her window thrice,
A raven flapp'd his wing.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The soleinn boding sound,
And thus in dying words bespoke
The virgins weeping round:
I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says, I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,

Which beckons me away.
By a false heart, and broken vows,
In early youth I die :

Am I to blame because his bride

Is thrice as rich as I?

Ah Colin! give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone;

Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.
To-morrow in the church to wed,
Impatient both prepare;

But know, fond maid, and know, false man,

That Lucy will be there!

There bear my corpse, ye comrades, bear,
The bridegroom blithe to meet ;
He in his wedding-trim so gay,

I in my winding-sheet.

She spoke, she died! her corse was borne,
The bridegroom blithe to meet,
He in his wedding-trim so gay,
She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?
How were those nuptials kept?
The bridemen flock'd round Lucy, dead,
And all the village wept.
Compassion, shame, remorse, despair,
At once his bosom swell;

The damps of death bedew'd his brows,
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride (ah, bride no more!)
The varying crimson fled;
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,
She saw her husband dead.
He, to his Lucy's new-made grave
Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod,
For ever now remains.

Oft at this grave the constant hind,
And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the sacred green.

But, swain forsworn! whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

crest,

Pamper'd, prancing, and pleas'd, his head touching his breast, Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate, The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate. Now Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush

Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his brush;

They run him at length, and they have him at bay,

[dious way: And by scent, and by view, cheat a long teWhile, alike born for sports of the field and the course,

Always sure to come through, a staunch and fleet horse;

When, fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,

The high-mettled racer is in at the death.

Grown aged, us'd up, and turn'd out of the stud, [some blood; Lame, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, "but yet with While knowing postilions his pedigree trace, Tell his dam won this sweepstakes, his sire gain'd that race; [o'er, And what matches he won to the ostlers count As they loiter their time at some hedge-alehouse door;

While the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad,

The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road. Till, at last, having labor'd, drudg'd early

and late,

Bow'd down by degrees, he bends to his fate; Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a

mill,

[stands still. Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass And now, cold and lifeless, expos'd to the view In the very same cart which he yesterday drew, While a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds, The high-mottled racer is sold for the hounds!

$139. Poor Jack. By the same. Go patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see, 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like; A tight-water boat and good sca-room give me, And t'ent to a little I'll strike: Though the tempest top-gallant masts smack smooth should smite,

And shiver each splinter of wood; Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse every thing tight,

And under reef'd foresail we'll scud. Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft To be taken for trifles aback,

For they says there's a Providence sits up aloft

To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack. Why, I heard the good chaplain palaver one day About souls, heaven, mercy, and such, And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay!

Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch. But he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye

Without orders that come down below, [see, And many fine things that prov'd clearly to me

That Providence takes us in tow. For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft Take the top-sails of sailors aback, [so oft

To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

I said to our Poll, for you see she would cry, When at last we weigh'd anchor for sea, What argufies sniv'ling, and piping your eye? Why, what a damn'd'fool you must be! Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us all,

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore? And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, Why, you never will hear of me more.

Fair Ariadne left,

ends,

Nought's a trouble from duty that springs; For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's,

And as for my life, 'tis the king's.

D'ye think she did her fate deplore,
Or her fine locks or bosom tore,
Like one of hope bereft ?
Not she, indeed. Her fleeting love
And as gay Bacchus' tigers move,
From mortal turns divine;
His car ascends amidst a grove
Who lead the jolly pair along,
Of vines, surrounded by a throng,

Almost half-gone with wine.

Ma'am Helen lov'd the Phrygian boy,
He thought her all his own:
But hottest love will soonest cloy,

so soft

As for grief to be taken aback :

That same little cherub that sits up aloft

Will look out a good birth for Poor Jack.

$140. By the sume.

Of all sensations pity brings,

To proudly swell the ample heart,

From which the willing sorrow springs,
In others' grief that bears a part:
Of all sad sympathy's delights,
The manly dignity of grief,
A joy in mourning that excites,

And gives the anxious mind relief:
Of these would you the feeling know,
Most gen'rous, noble, greatly brave,
That ever taught a heart to glow,

'Tis the tear that bedews a soldier's grave.

For hard and painful is his lot;

Let dangers come, he braves them all; Valiant, perhaps, to be forgot,

Or undistinguish'd doom'd to fall. Yet wrapt in conscious worth secure, The world, that now forgets his toil, He views from a retreat obscure,

And quits it with a willing smile. Then, trav'ller, one kind drop bestow, "Twere graceful pity, nobly brave; Nought ever taught the heart to glow Like the tear that bedews a soldier's grave.

§ 141. By the same.

WHAT though from Venus Cupid sprung,
No attribute divine

(Whate'er the bawling bards have sung)
Had he, his bow till Bacchus strung,
And dipt his darts in wine;
Till old Silenus plung'd the boy
In nectar from the vine:
Then love, that was before a toy,
Became the source of mortal joy;
The urchin shook his dewy wings,
And careless levell'd clowns and kings;
Such power has mighty wine!

But for the wife of Thone. She, merry gossip, mix'd a cup

Of tipple right divine,

To keep love's flagging spirits up,
And Helen drank it every sup:
This liquor is 'mongst learned elves
Nepenthe call'd; but, 'twixt ourselves
"Twas nothing more than wine.

Of Lethe, and its flow'ry brink,
Let musty poets prate,
Where thirsty souls are said to drink,
That never they again may think
Upon their former state:

What is there in this soulless lot,

pray you, so divine?

Grief finds the palace and the cot,
Which, for a time, were well forgot;
Come here then, in our Lethe share,
The true oblivion of your care
Is only found in wine.

$142. By the sume.

YANKO he tell, and he tell no lie,
We near one pretty brook,
Him flowing hair, him lovely eye,
Sweetly on Orra look:

Him see big world, fine warrior men,
Grand cruel king love blood;
Great king! but Yanko say what den
If he no honest good?

Virtue in foe be virtue still,

Fine stone be found in mine:
The sun one dale, as well one hill,
Make warm where'er him shine.
You broder him, him broder you,
So all the world should call;
For nature say, and she say true,
That men be broder all."

If cruel man, like tiger grim,

Come bold in thirst of blood, Poor man: be noble, pity him, That he no honest good: Virtue in foe be virtue still,

Fine stone be found in mine: The sun one dale, as well one hill, Make warm where'er him shine.

§ 143. Yanko. By the same. DEAR Yanko say, and true he say,

A mankind, one and t'other,
Negro, mulatto, and Malay,
Through all the world be broder.
In black, in yellow, what disgrace,
That scandal so he use 'em?
For dere no virtue in de face,

De virtue in de bosom.

What harm dere in a shape or make? What harm in ugly feature? Whatever color, form, he take,

The heart make human creature. Then black and copper both be friend, No color he bring beauty; For beauty, Yanko say, attend On him who do him duty. Dear Yanko say, &c.

What though by duty I am call'd
Where thund'ring cannons rattle,
Where Valor's self might stand appall'd ?
When on the wings of thy dear love

To Heaven above

Thy fervent orisons are ǹown,
The tender prayer
Thou putt'st up there
Shall call a guardian angel down,
To watch me in the battle.

My safety thy fair truth shall be,

As sword and buckler serving; My life shall be more dear to me, Because of thy preserving. Let peril come, let horror threat, Let thund'ring cannons rattle, I'll fearless seek the conflict's heat, Assur'd when on the wings of love To Heaven above, &c.

Enough. With that benignant smile Some kindred god inspir'd thee;

the same.

WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,
Alas! are the children of sorrow;
And, though brisk and merry to-day,
We may all be unhappy to-morrow.
For sunshine 's succeeded by rain;
Then, fearful of life's stormy weather,
Lest pleasure should only bring pain,
Let us all be unhappy together.

I grant the best blessing we know

Is a friend, for true friendship's a treasure;
And yet, lest your friend prove a foe,
Oh! taste not the dangerous pleasure.
Thus friendship's a flimsy affair,
Thus riches and health are a bubble;
Thus there's nothing delightful but care,
Nor any thing pleasing but trouble.

If a mortal would point out that life
Which on earth could be nearest to heaven,
Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wife
To whom truth and honor are given.
But honor and truth are so rare,
And horns, when they 're cutting, so tingle,
That, with all my respect to the fair,
I'd advise him to sigh, and live single.

It appears from these premises plain,
That wisdom is nothing but folly;
That pleasure's a term that means pain,
And that joy is your true melancholy :
That all those who laugh ought to cry,
That 'tis fine frisk and fun to be grieving;
And that, since we must all of us die,
We should taste no enjoyment while living.

§ 145. The Soldier's Adieu. By the same. ADIEU, adieu, my only life!

My honor calls me from thee; Remember thou 'rt a soldier's wife, Those tears but ill become thee.

Who wonder'd and admir'd thee. I go assur'd: my life, adieu;

Though thund'ring cannons rattle, Though murdering carnage stalk in view, When on the wings of thy true love To Heaven above, &c.

§ 146. Indian Song. By the same. THE Sun's descending in the wave; go, I go, my fate to brave: Ghosts of dead incas, now appear, Shriek as ye come Cold from the tomb,

And see if Moniaco knows to fear.
Oh Sun, my sire!

Lend me all thy noble fire:
Illia Moniaco to thy tomb,
Oh Atabalipa, soon shall come;
Cover me with scars,
Nought can control

The dauntless soul,

That shall live among its kindred stars.

What is't to die? To leave this clay,
And breathe an everlasting day,
For robes celestial shake off dust;
Among the blest,

From care to rest,
And emulate the virtues of the just:
Then, Sun, my sire,

Lend me all thy noble fire,
Illia Moniaco, &c.

Adieu, ye friends! vain world, adieu!
Bliss is for me, but woe for you;
While I, new-born, shall go to find
The upper heaven,

You shall be driven

Like scatter'd chaff before false fortune's wind. Now, Sun, my sire,

I feel, I feel thy noble fire!

Illia Moniaco, &c.

$147. By the same.
HARK the din of distant war,
How noble is the clangor !
Pale Death ascends his ebon car,
Clad in terrific anger.

A doubtful fate the soldier tries
Who joins the gallant quarrel :
Perhaps on the cold ground he lies,
No wife, no friend, to close his eyes,
Though nobly mourn'd;
Perhaps, return'd,

He's crown'd with victory's laurel.
How many, who, disdaining fear,
Rush on the desperate duty,
Shall claim the tribute of the tear
That dims the eye of beauty?

A doubtful fate, &c.

What nobler fate can fortune give?
Renown shall tell our story
If we should fall; but if we live,
We live our country's glory.

'Tis true, a doubtful fate, &c.

§ 148. By the same.

POOR Peggy lov'd a soldier lad
More, far more, than tongue can tell ye;
Yet was her tender bosom sad
Whene'er she heard the loud reveiller.

The fifes were screech-owls to her ears,
The drums like thunder seem'd to rattle;
Ah, too prophetic were her fears,
They call'd him from her arms to battle.
There wonders he against the foe
Perform'd, and was with laurels crown'd;
Vain pomp! for soon death laid him low
On the cold ground.

Her heart all love, her soul all truth, That none her fears or flight discover, Poor Peg, in guise a comely youth, Follow'd to the field her lover. Directed by the fife and drum To where the work of death was doing; Where of brave hearts the time was come, Who, seeking honor, grasp at ruin :

Her very soul was chill'd with woe, New horror came in every sound,

And whisper'd, death had laid him low On the cold ground.

With mute affliction as she stood,
While her woman's fears confound her,
With terror all her soul subdued,

A mourning train came thronging round her.
The plaintive fife, and muffled drum,
The marshal obsequies discover;

His name she heard, and cried, I come, Faithful to meet my murder'd lover!

Then heart-rent by a sigh of woe, Fell, to the grief of all around,

Where death had laid her lover low On the cold ground!

$149. Song. STEPHENS.

ONCE the gods of the Greeks, at ambrosial feast, Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing, Merry Momus among them appeared as a guest: Homer says the celestials love laughing. This happen'd 'fore Chaos was fix'd into form, While nature disorderly lay;

While elements adverse engender'd the storm,
And uproar embroil'd the loud fray.

On every Olympic the humorist droll'd,
So none could his jokes disapprove;
He sung, reparteed, and some old stories told,
And at last thus began upon Jove:
Sire, mark how yon matter is heaving below,
Were it settled 't would please all your court;
'Tis not wisdom to let it lic useless, you know;
Pray people it, just for our sport.

Jove nodded assent, all Olympus bow'd down,
At his fiat creation took birth;
The cloud-keeping deity smil'd on his throne,
Then announc'd the production was earth.
To honour their sov'reign each god gave a boon:
Apollo presented it light;

The goddess of child-bed dispatch'd us a moon,
To silver the shadow of night:

The queen of soft wishes, foul Vulcan's fair bride,

Leer'd wanton on her man of war; [guide. Saying, As to these earth-folks, I'll give them a So she sparkled the morn and eve star. From her cloud, all in spirits, the goddess up sprung,

In ellipsis each planet advanc'd; The tune of the spheres the Nine Sisters sung, As round Terra Nova they danc'd.

Even Jove himself could not insensible stand," Bid Saturn his girdle fast bind : [hand, The expounder of fate grasp'd the globe in his And laugh'd at those mites call'd mankind. From the hand of great Jove into space it was