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MAY-EVE ; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN.
The silver moon's enamour'd beam
Steals softly through the night,
And kiss reflected light.
('Tis where you've seldom been) May's vigil while the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.
Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,
And give the promis'd May.
The promis'd May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.
the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love:
He quits the tufted green:
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,
Or tune the reed to love :
She claims a virgin queen;
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
GEORGE LORD LYTTLETON.
BORN 1709.-DIED 1773.
This nobleman's public and private virtues, and his merits as the historian of Henry II. will be remembered when his verses are forgotten. By a felicity very rare in his attempts at poetry, the kids and fawns of his Monody do not entirely extinguish all appearance of that sincere feeling with which it must have been composed. Gray, in a letter to Horace Walpole, has justly remarked the beauty of the stanza beginning " In vain I look around.” “ If it were all like this stanza," he continues, “ I “ could be pleased." Nature, and sorrow, and tenderness are the true genius of such things (monodies). Poetical ornaments are foreign to the purpose, for they only shew a man is not sorry, and devotion worse, for it teaches him that he ought not to be sorry, which is all the pleasure of the thing.
FROM THE MONODY.
At length escap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care, That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade, This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, I now may give my burden'd heart relief, And
pour forth all my stores of grief; Of grief surpassing every other woe, Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our gross desires, inelegant and low.
In vain I look around
O'er all the well-known ground,
Where oft we us'd-to walk,
Where oft in tender talk
Nor by yon fountain's side,
Along the valley, can she now be found :
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns
By your delighted mother's side,
Who now your infant steps shall guide ? Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care To every virtue would have form'd your youth, And strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth?
O loss beyond repair! O wretched father! left alone, To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own! How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with woe,
And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave, Perform the duties that you doubly owe!
Now she, alas ! is gone, From folly and from vice their helpless age to save?
O best of wives! O dearer far to me
Than when thy virgin charms
Were yielded to my arms,
grown, Abandon'd and alone,
Without my sweet companion can I live?
Without thy lovely smile,
Ev’n the delightful sense of well-earn’d praise, Unshar'd by thee, no more my lifeless thoughts could
For my distracted mind
What succour can I find?
Your kind assistance lend,
Alas! each friend of mine,
comfort to bestow.
In every other grief,
idea sadden'd all : Each favourite author we together read My tortur'd memory wounds, and speaks of Lucy
We were the happiest pair of human kind;
And back return'd again;
Still in her golden chain