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Why did 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 face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin heart,
Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And why did I, young witless maid!
That face, alas! no more is fair,
Those lips 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 late adieu!
Come see, false man! how low she lies
Who died 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 hied 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!
A PIPE OF TOBACCO:
In Imitation of six several Authors.
A NEW YEAR'S ODE.
LD battle-array, big with horror, is fled,
And olive rob'd Peace again lifts up her head. Sing, ye Muses, Tobacco, the blessing of peace; Was ever a nation so blessed as this?
When summer suns grow red with heat,
Like Neptune, Cæsar guards Virginian fleets,
Happy mortal, he! who knows
Let foreign climes the vine and orange boast,
Smiling years, that gayly run Round the zodiac, with the sun Tell, if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene. British sons no longer, now, Hurl the bar, or twang the bow; Nor of crimson combat think, But securely smoke and drink.
Smiling years, that gayly run Round the zodiac, with the sun, Tell, if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene.
ITTLE tube, of mighty power,
Object of my warm desire,
Who, when again the night returns,
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Thou, matur'd by glad Hesperian suns,
Flash on thy bard, and, with exalting fires,
But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join,
Stream life and joy into the Muses' bowl.
O be thou still my great inspirer, thou
My Muse; oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon,
RITICS avaunt; Tobacco is my theme;
Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam.
Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree?
She will not smoke (ye gods!)-but she will drink.
For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke,-ev'ry thing.
LEST leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense: So raptur'd priests, at fam'd Dodona's shrine, Drank inspiration from the steam divine. Poison that cures, a vapour that affords Content more solid than the smile of lords: