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Long had he seen their secret flame,

And seen it long unmov'd: Then with a father's frown at last Had sternly disapprov'd.

In Edwin's gentle heart, a war Of differing passions strove: His heart, that durst not disobey, Yet could not cease to love.

Deny'd her sight, he oft behind

The spreading hawthorn crept, To snatch a glance, to mark the spot Where Emma walk'd and wept.

Oft too on Stanemore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moon-light shade,
In sighs to pour his soften'd soul,

The midnight-mourner stray'd.

His cheek, where health with beauty glow'd,
A deadly pale o'ercast :

So fades the fresh rose in its prime,
Before the northern blast.

The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed;

And weary'd Heaven with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrows shed.

""Tis past" he cry'd-" but if your souls Sweet mercy yet can move,

Let these dim eyes once more behold,
What they must ever love!"

She came; his cold hand softly touch'd,
And bath'd with many a tear:
Fast-falling o'er the primrose pale,
So morning dews appear.

But oh! his sister's jealous care,

A cruel sister she!

Forbade what Emma came to say;
"My Edwin, live for me!"

Now homeward as she hopeless wept
The church-yard path along,

The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found

In every bush his hovering shade, His groan in every sound.

Alone, appall'd, thus had she pass'd

The visionary vale

When lo! the death-bell smote her ear,
Sad sounding in the gale!

Just then she reach'd, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door-

"He's gone!" she cry'd; " and I shall see That angel-face no more.

"I feel, I feel this breaking heart Beat high against my side"-

From her white arm down sunk her head; She shivering sigh'd, and dy'd.

EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM THE CURATE OF BOWES, IN YORKSHIRE, ON THE SUBJECT OF THE PRECEDING POEM.

TO MR. COPPERTHWAITE, AT MARRICK.
WORTHY SIR,

*** As to the affair mentioned in yours, it happened long before my time. I have therefore been obliged to consult my clerk, and another person in the neighbourhood, for the truth of that melancholy event. The history of it is as follows:

THE family-name of the young man was Wrightson; of the young maiden Railton. They were both much of the same age; that is, growing up to twenty. In their birth was no disparity: but in fortune, alas! she was his inferior. His father, a hard old man, who had by his toil acquired a handsome competency, expected and required that his son should marry suitably. But, as amor vincit omnia, his heart was unalterably fixed on the pretty young creature already named. Their courtship, which was all by stealth, unknown to the family, continued about a year. When it was found out, old Wrightson, his wife, and particularly their crooked daughter Hannah, flouted at the maiden, and treated her with notable contempt. For they held it as a maxim, and a rustic one it is, "that blood was nothing without groats."

The young lover sickened, and took to his bed about Shrove Tuesday, and died the Sunday sevennight after.

On the last day of his illness, he desired to see his mistress. She was civilly received by the mother, who bid her welcome-when it was too late. But her daughter Hannah lay at his back; to cut them off from all opportunity of exchanging their thoughts.

At her return home, on hearing the bell toll out for his departure, she screamed aloud that her heart was burst, and expired some moments after.

The then curate of Bowes' inserted it in his register, that they both died of love, and were buried in the same grave, March 15, 1714. I am, DEAR SIR,

Yours, &c.

ON THE DEATH OF LADY ANSON.

Addressed to her father, 1761.

O CROWN'D with honour, blest with length of days,
Thou whom the wise revere, the worthy praise;
Just guardian of those laws thy voice explain'd,
And meriting all titles thou hast gain'd-
Though still the fairest from Heaven's bounty flow;
For good and great no monarch can bestow:
Yet thus, of health, of fame, of friends possest,
No fortune, Hardwicke, is sincerely blest.

1 Bowes is a small village in Yorkshire, where in former times the earls of Richmond had a castle. It stands on the edge of that vast and mountainous tract, named by the neighbouring people, Stanemore; which is always exposed to wind and weather, desolate and solitary throughout. Carnd. Brit.

All human-kind are sons of sorrow born:
The great must suffer, and the good must mourn.
For say, can Wisdom's self, what late was thine,
Can Fortitude, without a sigh, resign?

Ah, no! when Love, when Reason, hand in hand,
O'er the cold urn consenting mourners stand,
The firmest heart dissolves to soften here:
And Piety applands the falling tear.

Those sacred drops, by virtuous weakness shed,
Adorn the living, while they grace the dead:
From tender thought their source unblam'd they
draw,

By Heaven approv'd, and true to Nature's law.
When his lov'd child the Roman could not save,
Immortal Tully, from an early grave,
No common forms his home-felt passion kept:
The sage, the patriot, in the parent, wept.
And O by grief ally'd, as join'd in fame,
The same thy loss, thy sorrows are the same.
She whom the Muses, whom the Loves deplore,
Ev'n she, thy pride and pleasure, is no more:
In bloom of years, in all her virtue's bloom,
Lost to thy hopes, and silent in the tomb.

O season mark'd by mourning and despair,
Thy blasts, how fatal to the young and fair?
For vernal freshness, for the balmy breeze,
Thy tainted winds come pregnant with disease:
Sick Nature sunk before the mortal breath,
That scatter'd fever, agony, and death!
What funerals has thy cruel ravage spread!
What eyes have flow'd! what noble bosoms bled!
Here let Reflection fix her sober view:

O think, who suffer, and who sigh with you.
See, rudely snatch'd, in all her pride of charms,
Bright Granby from a youthful husband's arms!
In climes far distant, see that husband mourn;
His arms revers'd, his recent laurel torn!
Behold again, at Fate's imperious call,
In one dread instant blooming Lincoln fall!
See her lov'd lord with speechless anguish bend!
And, mixing tears with his, thy noblest friend,
Thy Pelham, turn on Heaven his streaming eye:
Again in her, he sees a brother die!

And he, who long, unshaken and serene,
Had death, in each dire form of terrour, seen,
Through worlds unknown o'er unknown oceans

tost,

By love subdued, now weeps a consort lost:
Now, sunk to fondness, all the man appears,
His front dejected, and his soul in tears!

Yet more: nor thou the Muse's voice disdain,
Who fondly tries to soothe a father's pain-
Let thy calm eye survey the suffering ball:
See kingdoms round thee verging to their fall!
What spring had promis'd and what autumn yields,
The bread of thousands, ravish'd from their fields!
See youth and age, th' ignoble and the great,
Swept to one grave, in one promiscuous fate!
Hear Europe groan! hear all her nations mourn!
And be a private wound with patience borne.

Think too: and reason will confirm the thought: Thy cares, for her, are to their period brought. Yes, she, fair pattern to a failing age, With wit, chastis'd, with sprightly temper, sage:

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TO MIRA.

FROM THE COUNTRY:

Tullia died about the age of two and thirty. She is celebrated for her filial piety; and for having added, to the usual graces of her sex, the more solid accomplishments of knowledge and polite let-Ar this late hour, the world lies hush'd below,

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Nor is one breath of air awake to blow.

Now walks mute Midnight, darkling o'er the plain, These scenes of bliss, no more upbraid my fate,

Torture my pining thought, and rouze my hate.
The leaf-clad forest, and the tufted grove,
Erewhile the safe retreats of happy love,
Stript of their honours, naked, now appear;
This is my soul! the winter of their year!
The little, noisy songsters of the wing,
All, shivering on the bough, forget to sing.
Hail! reverend Silence! with thy awful brow!
Be Music's voice, for ever mute-as now:
Let no intrusive joy my dead repose
Disturb :-no pleasure disconcert my woes.

Rest, and soft-footed Silence, in his train,
To bless the cottage, and renew the swain.
These all-asleep, me all-awake they find;
Nor rest, nor silence, charm the lover's mind.
Already, I a thousand torments prove,
The thousand torments of divided love:
The rolling thought, impatient in the breast;
The fluttering wish on wing, that will not rest;
Desire, whose kindled flames, undying, glow;
Knowledge of distant bliss, and present woe;
Unhush'd, unsleeping all, with me they dwell,
Children of absence, and of loving well!
These pale the cheek, and cloud the cheerless eye,
Swell the swift tear, and heave the frequent sigh:
These reach the heart, and bid the health decline;
And these, O Mira! these are truly mine.
Rough, rugged rocks, wet marshes, ruin'd towers,
She, whose sweet smile would gladden all the Bare trees, brown brakes, bleak heaths, and rushy
grove,

Whose mind is music, and whose looks are love;
She, gentle power! victorious softness!-She,
Mira, is far from hence, from love, and me;
Yet, in my every thought, her form I find,
Her looks, her words-her world of charms com-
Sweetness is her's, and unaffected ease; [bin'd!
The native wit, that was not taught to please.
Whatever softly animates the face,
The eye's attemper'd fire, the winning grace,
Th' unstudy'd smile, the blush that nature warms,
And all the graceful negligence of charms!
Ha! while I gaze, a thousand ardours rise;
And my fir'd bosom flashes from my eyes,
Oh! melting mildness! miracle of charms!
Receive my soul within those folding arms!
On that dear bosom let my wishes rest-
Oh! softer than the turtle's downy breast!
And see! where Love himself is waiting near!
Here let me ever dwell-for Heaven is here!

In this moss-cover'd cavern, hopeless laid,
On the cold cliff, I'll lean my aching head;
And, pleas'd with Winter's waste, unpitying, see
All nature in an agony with me!

moors,

Dead floods, huge cataracts, to my pleas'd eyes-
(Now I can smile!)-in wild disorder rise:
And now, the various dreadfulness combin'd,
Black Melancholy comes, to doze my mind.

See! Night's wish'd shades rise, spreading through

the air,

And the lone, hollow gloom, for me prepare!
Hail! solitary ruler of the grave!
Parent of terrours! from thy dreary cave!
Let thy dumb silence midnight all the ground,
And spread a welcome horrour wide around.-
But hark! a sudden howl invades my ear!
The phantoms of the dreadful hour are near.
Shadows, from each dark cavern, now combine,
And stalk around, and mix their yells with mine.
Stop, flying Time! repose thy restless wing;
Fix here nor hasten to restore the spring:
Fix'd my ill fate, so fix'd let winter be-
Let never wanton season laugh at me!

A WINTER'S DAY.

WRITTEN IN A STATE of melancholy.

Now, gloomy soul! look out-now comes thy turn;
With thee, behold all ravag'd nature mourn.
Hail the dim empire of thy darling night,
That spreads, slow-shadowing, o'er the vanquish'd

light.

Look out, with joy; the ruler of the day,
Faint, as thy hopes, emits a glimmering ray:
Already exil'd to the utmost sky,

Hither, oblique, he turn'd his clouded eye.
Lo! from the limits of the wintery pole,
Mountainous clouds, in rude confusion, roll:
In dismal pomp, now, hovering on their way,
To a sick twilight, they reduce the day.
And hark! imprison'd winds, broke loose, arise,
And roar their haughty triumph through the skies.
While the driven clouds, o'ercharg'd with floods of
rain,

And mingled lightning, burst upon the plain.
Now see sad Earth-like thine, her alter'd state,
Like thee, she mourns her sad reverse of Fate!
Her smile, her wanton looks-where are they now?
Faded her face, and wrapt in clouds her brow!

No more, th' ungrateful verdure of the plain;
No more, the wealth-crown'd labours of the swain;

PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

THE MASQUE OF BRITANNIA,
SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK', 1755, IN THE CHARACTER OF
A SAILOR, FUDDLED AND TALKING TO HIMSELF.

He enters, singing,

"How pleasant a sailor's life passes-"
WELL, if thou art, my boy, a little mellow!
A sailor, half seas o'er-'s a pretty fellow;
What cheer ho? Do I carry too much sail?

[To the pit.
No-tight and trim-I scud before the gale-
[He staggers forward, then stops.
But softly though-the vessel seems to heel:
Steady! my boy-she must not show her keel.
And now, thus ballasted-what course to steer?
Shall I again to sea-and bang mounseer?
Or stay on shore, and toy with Sall and Sue-
Dost love 'em, boy?-By this right hand, I do!
A well-rigg'd girl is surely most inviting:
There's nothing better, faith-s
-save flip and fighting:
For shall we sons of beef and freedom stoop,
Or lower our flag to slavery and soup?

Some of the lines too were written by him.

What! shall these parly-vous make such a racket,
And we not lend a hand, to lace their jacket?
Still shall Old England be your Frenchman's butt?
Whene'er he shuffles, we should always cut.
I'll to 'em, faith-Avast-before I go-
Have I not promis'd Sall to see the show?

[Pulls out a play bill. From this same paper we shall understand What work's to-night-I'll read your printed hand! But, first refresh a bit--for faith I need itI'll take one sugar-plum—and then I'll read it, [Takes some tobacco.

He reads the play-bill of Zara, which was acted that evening. At the The-atre-Royal-Drury-Lane— will be presenta-ted a tragedy called

* SARAH.

I'm glad 'tis Sarah-Then our Sall may see
Her namesake's tragedy: and as for me,
I'll sleep as sound, as if I were at sea.

To which will be added—a new Masque.
Zounds! why a Mask? We sailors hate grimaces:
Abwe-board all, we scorn to hide our faces.
But what is here, so very large and plain?
Bri-ta-nia-oh Britania!-good again-
Hazza, boys! by the Royal George I swear,
Tom Coxen, and the crew, shall straight be there.
All free-born souls must take Bri-ta-nia's part,
And give her three round cheers, with hand and
[Going off, he stops.
I wish you landmen, though, would leave your tricks,
Your factions, parties, and damn'd politics:
And, like us, honest tars, drink, fight, and sing!
True to yourselves, your country, and your king!

heart.

INSCRIPTION FOR A PICTURE.

WITH no one talent that deserves applause;
With no one aukwardness that laughter draws;
Who thinks not, but just echoes what we say;
A clock, at morn, wound up, to run a day:
His larum goes in one smooth, simple strain;
He stops: and then, we wind him up again.
Still hovering round the fair at fifty-four,
Unfit to love, unable to give o'er;

A flesh-fly, that just flutters on the wing,
Awake to buz, but not alive to sting;

Brisk where he cannot, backward where he can;
The teazing ghost of the departed man.

SONG.

TO A SCOTCH TUNE, MARY SCOT.

WHERE Thames, along the daisy'd meads,
His wave, in lucid mazes, leads,
Silent, slow, serenely flowing,
Wealth on either shore bestowing:
There, in a safe, though small retreat,
Content and Love have fix'd their seat:
Love, that counts his duty, pleasure;
Content, that knows and hugs his treasure.

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CHARM'D, and instructed, by thy powerful song, I have, unjust, withheld my thanks too long: This debt of gratitude, at length, receive, Warmly sincere, 'tis all thy friend can give.

Thy worth new lights the poet's darken'd name,
And shows it, blazing, in the brightest fame.
Through all thy various Winter, full are found
Magnificence of thought, and pomp of sound,
Clear depth of sense, expression's heightening grace,
And goodness, eminent in power, and place!
For this, the wise, the knowing few, commend
With zealous joy-for thou art Virtue's friend:
Ev'n Age, and Truth severe, in reading thee,
That Heaven inspires the Muse, convinc'd, agree.
Thus I dare sing of merit, faintly known,
Friendless-supported by itself alone:

For those, whose aided will could lift thee high
In fortune, see not with Discernment's eye.
Nor place, nor power, bestows the sight refin'd;
And wealth enlarges not the narrow mind.

How could'st thou think of such, and write so well?

Or hope reward, by daring to excell?
Unskilful of the age! untaught to gain
Those favours, which the fawning base obtain!
A thousand shameful arts, to thec unknown,
Falsehood, and flattery, must be first thy own.
If thy lov'd country lingers in thy breast,
Thou must drive out th' unprofitable guest:
Extinguish each bright aim, that kindles there,
And centre in thyself thy every care.

But hence that vileness-pleas'd to charm mankind,

Cast cach low thought of interest far behind:
Neglected into noble scorn-away

From that worn path, where vulgar poets stray:
Inglorious herd! profuse of venal lays!
And by the pride despis'd, they stoop to praise!
Thou, careless of the statesman's smile or frown,
Tread that straight way, that leads to fair renown.
By Virtue guided, and by Glory fir'd,
And, by reluctant Envy, slow admir'd,
Dare to do well, and in thy boundless mind,
Embrace the general welfare of thy kind:
Enrich them with the treasures of thy thought,
What Heaven approves, and what the Muse has
taught.

Where thy power fails, unable to go on,
Ambitious, greatly will the good undone.
So shall thy name, through ages, brightening shine,
And distant praise, from worth unborn, be thine;
So shalt thou, happy! merit Heaven's regard,
And find a glorious, though a late reward.

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

A long and late adieu !

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

The lark sung loud; the morning smil'd,
With beams of rosy red:

Pale William quak'd in every limb,
And raving left his bed.

He hy'd him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay;

And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf,
That wrapp'd 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 spoke never more!

N. B. In a comedy of Fletcher, called the Knight of the Burning Pestle, old Merry-Thought enters repeating the following verses:

When it was grown to dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,

In came Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.

This was probably the beginning of some ballad, commonly known, at the time when that author wrote; and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to be met with. These lines, naked of ornament, and simple as they are, struck my fancy: and, bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of formerly, gave birth to the foregoing poem; which was written many years ago. Mallet.

An elegant Latin imitation of this ballad is printed in the works of Vincent Bourne. N.

EPITAPH,

ON MR. AIKMAN, AND HIS ONLY SON; WHO WERE BONIF
INTERRED IN THE SAME GRAVE.

DEAR to the wise and good, disprais'd by none,
Here sleep in peace the father and the son:
By virtue, as by nature, close ally'd,
The painter's genius, but without the pride;
Worth unambitious, wit afraid to shine,
Honour's clear light, and Friendship's warmth divine.
The son, fair-rising, knew too short a date;
But oh, how more severe the parent's fate!
He saw him torn, untimely, from his side,
Felt all a father's anguish, wept and dy'd!

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