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There came a man, by middle day, The rose was budded in her cheek,
He spied his sport and went his way, Just opening to the view.
And brought the king that very night
Who broke my bower and slew my But love had, like the canker-worm,

Consumed her early prime;

The rose grew pale, and left her cheekHe slew my knight to me so dear;

She died before her time.
He slew my knight and poin'd his gear ;
My servants all for life did fee,

“Awake," she cried, “thy true love calls, And left me in extremitie.

Come from her midnight grave;

Now let thy pity hear the maid,
I sew'd his sheet, making my moan ; Thy love refused to save.
I watch'd his corpse, myself alone;
I watch'd his body, night and day; “This is the dark and dreary hour,
No living creature came that way.

When injured ghosts complain;

When yawning graves give up their dead, I took his body on my back,

To haunt the faithless swain.
And whiles I gaed and whiles I sat ;
I digg'd a grave and laid him in,

“Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, And happ'd him with the sod so green. Thy pledge and broken oath!

And give me back my maiden vow,
But think na ye my heart was sair

And give me back my troth.
When I laid the mould on his yellow hair;
Think nae ye my heart was wae, “Why did you promise love to me,
When I turn’d about, away to gae ? And not that promise keep?

Why did you swear my eyes were brigat, No living man I'll love again,

Yet leave those eyes to weep?
Since that my lovely knight is slain ;
With one lock of his yellow hair, How could you say my face was fair,
I'll bind my heart for evermair.

And yet that face forsake ?
How could you win my virgin heart,

Yet leave that heart to break ?
(DAVID MALLET. 1703?-1965.) “Why did you say my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale ? WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

And why did I, young witless maid ! 'T was at the silent, solemn hour,

Believe the flatt'ring tale ?
When night and morning meet ;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, “That face, alas ! no more is fair,
And stood at William's feet.

Those lips no longer red;

Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, Her face was like an April morn,

And every charm is filed.
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand, “The hungry worm my sister is;
That held her sable shroud.

This winding-sheet I wear:

And cold and weary lasts our night,
So shall the fairest face appear,

Till that last morn appear.
When youth and years are flown :
Such is the robe that kings must wear,

“ But hark! the cock has warn'd me When death has reft their crown.


A long and last adieu ! Her bloom was like the springing flower, Come see, false man, how low she lies, That sips the silver dew;

Who died for love of you,

The lark sung loud; the morning smiled What happy hours of heart-felt bliss,
With beams of rosy red;

Did love on both bestow !
Pale Wuiam quaked in every limb,

But bliss too mighty long to last, And raving left his bed.

Where fortune proves a foe. He hied him to the fatal place,

His sister, who, like envy form’d, Where Margaret's body lay; [turf, Like her in mischief joy'd, And stretch'd him on the green grass To work them harm with wicked skill That wrapt her breathless clay.

Each darker art employ'd. And thrice he called on Margaret's name, The father, too, a sordid man, And thrice he wept full sore;

Who love nor pity knew,
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, Was all unfeeling as the rock
And word spake never more.

From whence his riches grew.
Long had he seen their mutual flame,

And seen it long unmoved ;

Then with a father's frown at last

He sternly disapproved.
Far in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a shelt'ring wood,

In Edwin's gentle heart a war
The safe retreat of health and peace, Of diff'ring passions strove;
A humble cottage stood.

His heart, which durst not disobey,

Yet could not cease to love.
There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair
Beneath her mother's eye,

Denied her sight, he oft behind
Whose only wish on earth was now The spreading hawthorn crept,
To see her blest, and die,

To snatch a glance, to mark the spot

Where Emma walk'd and wept.
The softest blush that nature spreads
Gave colour to her cheek;

Oft, too, in Stanemore's wintry waste, Such orient colour smiles through Heav'n Beneath the moonlight shade, When May's sweet mornings break, In sighs to pour his soften’d soul,

The midnight mourner stray'd.
Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
The charmers of the plains;

His cheeks, where love with beauty
That sun which bids their diamond blaze glow'd,
To deck our lily deigns.

A deadly pale o'ercast;

So fades the fresh rose in its prime,
Long had she fired each youth with love, Before the northern blast.

Each maiden with despair,
And though by all a wonder own'd, The parents now, with late remorse,
Yet knew not she was fair ;

Hung o'er his dying bed,

And wearied Heav'n with fruitless pray'rs, Till Edwin came, the pride of swains, And fruitless sorrows shed.

A soul that knew no art; And from whose eyes serenely mild, “'T is past,” he cried, “but if your souls Shoné forth the feeling heart.

Sweet mercy yet can move,

Let these dim eyes once more behold A mutual flame was quickly caught, What they must ever love."

Was quickly too reveal'd; For neither bosom lodged a wish, She came; his cold hand softly touch'd, Which virtue keeps conceal'd

And bathed with many a tear :

Fast falling o'er the primrose pale, Each haughty faction shall obey,
So morning dews appear.

And whigs and tories join;

Submit to your despotic sway, But ah, his sister's jealous care

Confess your right divine. (A cruel sister she !) Forbade what Emma came to say,

Yet this, my gracious monarch, own, “My Edwin, live for me.”

They're tyrants that oppress;

'Tis mercy must support your throne, Now homeward as she hopeless went,

And 'tis like heaven to bless.
The churchyard path along,
The blast blew cold, the dark owl

[ROBERT BLAIR. 1699-1746.] Her lover's fun'ral song.

OFT IN THE LONE CHURCH. Amid the falling gloom of night,

YARD. Her startling fancy found

OFT, in the lone church-yard at night I've In ev'ry bush his hoy'ring shade,

seen, His groan in every sound.

By glimpse of moon-shine chequering

through the trees, Alone, appall’d, thus had she pass'd The visionary vale,

The school-boy with his satchel in his

hand, When lo ! the deathbell smote her ear, Sad sounding in the gale.

Whistling aloud to bear his courage up; (steps

And lightly tripping o'er the long flat Just then she reach'd with trembling (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'er.

stones, Her aged mother's door: “He's gone,” she cried, “and I shall see that tell in homely phrase who lie below.

grown,) That angel face no more !

Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he

hears, "I feel, I feel this breaking heart

The sound of something purring at his Beat high against my side!”

heels; From her white arm down sunk her head, Full fast 'he flies, and dares not look She shiver'd, sigh'd, and died.

behind him, Till out of breath he overtakes his fel.


AMES SOMERVILLE. 1692—1742.) THE RED AND WHITE ROSE. If this pale rose offend your sight,

It in your bosom wear ; 'Twill blush to find itself less white,

And turn Lancastrian there.

Who gather round, and wonder at the

taie Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his

O’er some new-open'd grave; and (strange

to tell !)
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

But, Celia, should the red be chose,

With gay vermilion bright, 'Twould sicken at each blush that glows,

And in despair turn white. Let politicians idly prate,

Their Babels build in vain ; As uncontrollable as fate,

Imperial Love shall reign.

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groan indeed !

Branding our laughter with the name of Honest effusion ! the swoll'n heart in madness.

vain Where are the jesters now? the men of Works hard to put a gloss on its distress.

health Complexionally pleasant ? Where the

droll, Whose ev'ry look and gesture was


STRENGTH too — thou surly, and less To chapping theatres and shouting

gentle boast crowds,

Of those that loud laugh at the village And made ev'n thick-lipp'd musing

ring; melancholy

A fit of common sickness pulls thee To gather up her face into a smile

down Before she was aware? Ah! sullen With greater ease, than e'er thou didst now,

the stripling And dumb as the green turf that covers That rashlý dared thee to th’ unequal them.

fight. What groan was that I heard !-deep

With anguish heavy laden ; let me trace BEAUTY IN THE GRAVE.

it : BEAUTY-thou pretty plaything, dear from yonder bed it comes, where the deceit,

strong man, That steals so softly o'er the stripling's By stronger arm belabour'd, gasps for heart,

breath And gives it a new pulse, unknown be. Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great fore,

heart The grave discredits thee : thy charms Beats thick ! his roomy chest by far too expung'd,

scant Thy roses faded, and thy lilies soil'd, To give the lungs full play.-What now What hast thou more to boast of? Will avail thy lovers

The strong-built sinewy limbs, and well. Flock round thee now, to gaze and do spread shoulders ; thee homage?

See how he tugs for life, and lays about Methinks I see thee with thy head low him, laid,

Mad with his pain! Eager he catches Whilst surfeited upon thy damask cheek hold The high-fed worm, in lazy volumes Of what comes next to hand, and grasps roll'd,

it hard,

[sight ! Riots unscared.--For this, was all thy Just like a creature drowning ; hideous caution ?

Oh! how his eyes stand out, and stare For this, thy painful labours at thy glass ? full ghastly! T' improve those charms, and keep them While the distemper's rank and deadly

in repair, For which the spoiler thanks thee not. Shoots like a burning arrow cross his Foul feeder,

bowels, Coarse fare and carrion please thee full And drinks his marrow up.—Heard you

as well, And leave as keen a relish on the sense. It was his last.–See how the great Look how the fair one weeps !-the con- Goliah, scious tears

Just like a child' that brawl'd itself to Stand thick as dew-drops on the bells of rest, flowers :

Lies still.


that groan?


air ;



(THOMAS GRAY. 1716-1771.)

To brisk notes in cadence beating,

Glance their many-twinkling feet. THE PROGRESS OF POESY.

Slow-melting strains their queen's apA PINDARIC ODE.

proach declare. Where'er she turns the Graces homage

pay, AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake,

With arms sublime that float upon the And give to raptuire all thy trembling strings.

In gliding state she wins her easy way: From Helicon's harmonious springs O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom A thousand rills their mazy progress


The bloom of young Desire, and purple The laughing flowers that round them light of Love.

blow, Drink life and flagrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along,

Man's feeble race what ills await, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

Labour and Penury, the racks of Pain, Through verdant vales, and Ceres'

Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,

And Death, sad refuge from the golden reign :

storms of Fate! Now rolling down the steep amain,

The fond complaint, my song, disprove Headlong, impetuous, see it pour : The rocks, and nodding groves, rebellow

And justify the laws of Jove. to the roar.

Say, has he given in vain the heavenly

Muse ?
Oh! sovereign of the willing soul,

Night and all her sickly dews,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing

Her spectres wan, and birds of boding airs,


He gives to range the dreary sky : Enchanting shell! the sullen cares,

Till down the eastern cliffs afar And frantic passions, hear thy soft

Hyperion's march they spy, the glittering control : On Thracia's hills the lord of war

shafts of war. Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy

In climes beyond the solar road, command :

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built Perching on the scepter'd hand

mountains roam, Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd The Muse has broke the twilight gloom king

To cheer the shivering native's dull With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:

abode. Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie And oft, beneath the odorous shade The terror of his beak, and lightning of

Of Chili's boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage youth

repeat, Thee the voice, the dance, obey,

In loose numbers wildly sweet, Temper'd to thy warbled lay,

Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and O'er Idalia's velvet-green

dusky loves. The rosy-crowned Loves are seen,

Her track, where'er the goddess roves, On Cytherea's day,

Glory pursue, and generous Shame, With antic Sports and blue-eyed Plea. Th’ unconquerable mind, and Freedom's sures,

holy flame. Frisking light in frolic measures ; Now pursuing, now retreating,

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Now in circling troops they meet : Isles, that crown'd th' Ægean deep,

his eye.

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