Through wood and wild, they speed their way, Then sweep along the plain, And almost at the break of day, The Danube's banks they gain. -"Now stop ye, Raymond, ftop ye here, "And view the farther fide ; "Difmount, and fay Sir Knight, do'ft fear, "With me to ftem the tide.". Now on the utmost brink they stand, She seized Don Raymond by the hand, A whirling blast from off the stream Then down his limbs, in ftrange affright, No Agnes met his shudd'ring fight, "Oh Raymond! Raymond! I am thine, "And leave thee will I never ; "I am thine, and thou art mine, "Body and foul for ever!" Don Raymond fhrieks, he faints; the blood. Ran cold in every vein, He fank into the roaring flood, And never rose again ! No. LIII. THE MAID OF THE MOOR, OR THE WATER FIENDS. G. COLMAN, JUN. This Tale, which is unavoidably misplaced, fhould have formed No. xxxvi. ON a wild moor, all brown and bleak, Where broods the heath frequenting growfe, There stood a tenement antique, Lord Hoppergollop's country house. Here filence reign'd with lips of glue, And undisturb'd maintain'd her law; Save when the owl cried-" whoo! whoo! whoo!"Or the hoarfe crow croak'd-" caw! caw! caw!" Neglected Neglected manfion! for 'tis faid, Whene'er the fnow came feathering down, Four barbed fteeds, from the Bull's-head, Carried thy mafter up to town. Weak Hoppergollop! Lords may moan, Swift whirl the wheels, he's gone ;-a Rofe Unseen, must blush in wint'ry snows; Sweet beauteous bloffom! 'twas the Cook! Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand: Long had the fair one fat alone, Had not been left for company. "Twas a tall youth, whofe cheek's clear hue Was tinged with health and manly toil; Cabbage he fow'd, and when it grew, He always cut it off to boil, Oft Oft would he cry,-"Delve, delve the hole! "And prune the tree, and trim the root! "And stick the wig upon the pole, "To fcare the fparrows from the fruit !" A fmall mute favourite by day Follow'd his steps; where'er he wheels Ah man! the brute creation fee, Are found in every bob-tail cur. Hard toil'd the youth, fo fresh and strong, While Bob-tail in his face would look, And mark'd his mafter troll the fong, -"Sweet Molly Dumpling! O, thou Cook !" For thus he fung: while Cupid fmiled, Pleafed that the Gard'ner own'd his dart; Which pruned his paffions, running wild, And grafted true-love on his heart. Maid of the Moor, his love return! True love ne'er tints the cheek with fhame; Ah! |