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Condemn'd in fight a hapless end to meet,
Beneath his royal conqu’ring rival's feet;
Ev’n where his lance had given the erring wound,
His own undaunted body prest the ground:
Greatly he fell ! — but Emma, weeping maid,
The victor-princes from the field convey'd ;

angry Monmouth's tears were seen to flow,
To hear the beauteous rebel's tale of woe.,
He charg'd his guards with tender care to bear,
To Morcar's house, the fadly mourning fair ;
But ere she reach'd the hospitable dome,
Her once much-lov'd, and dear, delightful home,
Her father's clay-cold corse, a weeping train,
Bore to her feet, by his own poniard Nain;
For rumour's tongue had spread his son's sad fate,
And Henry victor in the stern debate,
{mall hope of Emma's forfeit life could yield,
Ev'n ik she 'scap'd the horrors of the field.
Despairing thus, the aged chieftain fell,
And bade, with fighs, a wretched world farewell.
Thus press’d with grief, in all her wishes crossid,
Her fire, her brother, and her lover loft,
Fix’d, motionless the stood, nor filence broke,
(As one who feels th’avenging thunder's stroke)
At length, (fear adding strength) the virgin-

bride, Burst from her train, and fought the Severn's side ; Ev'n there, where once the young Sabrina brave Perish'd, indignant, in the foaming wave;

With streaming eyes and agonizing woe,
The damsel plung’d her in the deep below.,
For her no trophy'd hearse, no torches bright,
Gild the dun horrors of the conscious night;
But weeping heav'n pours fast a rushing show'r,
And Severn lifts his waves, diftain'd with gore;
Loud thunders roll, and livid light’nings play,
The simple swains with horror mark the day;
Some say, that by the moon's pale light they

Her shade ascending from the angry flood,
Till in the clouds she met her lover's form,
And with him foar'd to heav'n, amid the bel-

lowing storm,
And still the rustics to their fons relate,
The dismal story of fair Emma's fate,
As oft as “ in long winter nights” they tell,

, How Monmouth fought, how gallant Percy fell.



J. H.




N the banks of that crystalline stream

Where Thames, oft, his current delays;
And charms, more than poets can dream,

In his Richmond's bright villa surveys.


+ A surreptitious copy of this appeared (agreeable to the date below) under the names of COLIN and LUCY : and, at a time when all modern productions were decryed, this piece, by means of the following preface, met with an approbation which otherwise, no doubt, it would have failed of.

To the READER. The MS, bears date (anno 1609), at East-Sheene in Surry, the then bright residence of a maiden queen, and her royal court, Who the personages were, concealed under the simple characters of Allen and ELLA, does not rightly appear; but, as lady of the noble family of Hungerford is recorded to have drowned herself much about that period, 'tis more than probable it gave birth to the above so affecting tale; and the reader is left to judge, how far the productions of that refined age would have exceeded those of the present, had more of them been, fortue nately, preserved.

It is hoped, that time has not so injured other pieces, as to pree vent their being presented to the public hereafter. What parts of this were unintelligible, are only guessed at: for the editor, as he would not dare the adding to, chose also, not to diminish from, so valuable a FRAGMENT. Richmond, May 1, 1753.

Fair Ella! of all the gay throng

The fairest that nature had seen, Now drew ev'ry village along,

From the day she first danc'd on the green.

Ah! boast not of beauty's fond pow'r,

For short is the triumph, ye fair! Not fleeter the bloom of each fiow'r;

And hope is but gilded despair,

His affection each swain now, behold,

By riches endeavours to prove ; But Ella ftill cries, what is gold,

Or wealth, when compar'd to his love?

Yes, Allen, together we'll wield

Our sickles in summer's bright day; Together we'll leaze o'er the field, And smile all our labours


In wigter I'll winnow the wheat,

As it falis from thy fiail on the ground : That flail will be music as sweet,

When thy voice in the labour is drown'd.

How oft wou'd he speak of his bliss !

How oft wou'd he call her his maid ; And Allen would seal with a kiss

Ev'ry promise and vow that he laid.


But, hark! o'er the grass-level † land,

The village bells found on the plain; False Allen this morn gave his hand,

And Ella's fond tears are in vain.

Sad Ella, too soon, heard the tale,

Too soon the sad cause she was told, That his was a nymph of the vale,

That he broke his fond promise for gold.

As the walk'd by the margin so green,

fide, How oft she was languishing seen!

How oft wou'd she gaze on the tide !

By the clear river, then, as the fate,

Which reflected herself and the mead; Awhile she be-wept her sad fate,

And the green turf ftill pillow'd her head,

There, there! is it Ella I fee?

'Tis Ella, the lost, undone maid ! Ah! no, 'tis fome Ella like me,

Some hapless young virgin betray’d.

Like me, she has forrow'd and wept,

Like me she has fondly believ'd; Like me her true promise she kept,

And, like me, too, is justly deceiv’d.

I come,

1 Most likely the village of Petersham.

$ In the original (much damaged in this particular place) it seems to be : “ Which be.ringes thai sweet river's side."

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