"If, to Britain's fhores returning, "You neglect my just request; "After this proud foe fubduing, "When your patriot friends you fee, "Think on vengeance for my ruin, "And for England shamed in me.”—

No. XXXVI.

MARGARET'S GHOST.

MALLET.

"TWAS at the filent folemn hour,
When night and morning meet,
In glided Margaret's grimly ghoft,
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 fable shroud.

So fhall the faireft 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 fpringing flower,

That fips the filver dew;

The rofe was budded in her cheek,

Juft opening to the view.

But

But love had, like the canker-worm,
Confumed her early prime :

The rofe grew pale, and left her cheek

She died before her time.

"Awake!" he cried, "thy true love calls,

"Come from her midnight grave;

"Now let thy pity hear the maid

"Thy love refused to fave.

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

"Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
"Thy pledge, and broken oath;
"And give me back my maiden vow,
"And give me back my troth.

"Why did you promife love to me, "And not that promise keep?

" Why did you fwear mine eyes were bright, "Yet leave thofe eyes to weep?

"How could you fay my face was fair,

"And yet that face forfake?

"How could you win my virgin heart,

"Yet leave that heart to break?

Why

"Why did you fay my lip was fweet,
"And made the fcarlet pale?
"And why did I, young witlefs maid,
"Believe the flattering tale?

"That face, alas! no more is fair;

"Thefe lips no longer red:

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

"The hungry worm my fister is;
"This winding sheet I wear:
" And cold and weary lasts our night,
"Till that laft morn appear.

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

"A long and laft adieu !

"Come fee, falfe man, how low the lies "Who died for love of you."

The lark fung loud, the morning smiled

With beams of rofy red;
Pale William fhook in every limb,
And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place,

Where Margaret's body lay;

And ftretch'd him on the grafs-green turf,
That wrapt her breathlefs clay.

And

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full fore;

Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word fpake never more.