« EelmineJätka »
HARK, hark, 'tis a voice from the tomb,
Come, Lucy, it cries, come away, The grave
of thy Colin has room To reft thee beside his cold clay. I come, my dear shepherd, I come,
'To die on his bosom so true.
All mournful the midnight bell rung,
When LUCY, fad LUCY, arose; And forth to the green turf she sprung,
Where Colin's pale alhes repose. All wet with the night's chilling dew,
Her bosom embrac'd the cold ground, While stormy winds over her blew,
And night-ravens croak'd all-around.
* How long, my lov'd COLIN,” she cry'd,
“ How long must thy Lucy complain? “ How long shall the grave my love hide ?
• How long ere it join us again? “ For thee thy fond shepherdess liv'd,
• With thee o’er the world would she fly; • For thee has she sorrow'd and griev'd;
• For thee would she lie down and die.
" Alas! what avails it how dear
Thy Lucy was once to her swain! 6. Her face like the lily so fair,
“ And: eyes that gave light to the plain. “ The shepherd that lov'd her is
gone; 6. That face and those eyes charm no more';. “ And Lucy forgot, and alone,
“ To death shall her Colin deplore.”'
While thus she lay funk in despair,
And mourn'd to the echoes around, Inflam'd all at once grew the air,
And thunder shook dreadful the ground. " I hear the kind call, and obey,
« Oh, Colin receive me,” she cried,. Then breathing a groan o'er his clay,
She hung on his tomb-stone, and died..
SONGS. EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
O, study more--discard that Siren, Ease,
Why not, sometimes, regale admiring friends “ With Greek and Latin sprinklings, odds and ends ? “ Exert your talents; read, and read to write! “ As Horace says, mix profit with delight."
'Tis rare advice: but I am ilow to mend,
If then the Muse no more shall strive to please,
As for Myself, I own the present charge;
However great my thirst of honest fame,
Nor think, my friend, if I but rarely quote,
Mean while with them, while Græcian sounds impart Th'eternal passions of the human heart, Bursting the bonds of ease and lazy rest, I feel the flame mount active in my breast; Or when, with joy, I turn the Roman page, I live, in fancy, in th’ AUGUSTAN age! Till some dull Bavius' or a Mævius' name, Damn'd by the Muse to everlasting fame, Forbids the mind in foreign climes to roam, And brings me back to our own fools at home,