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“ Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,

Thy pledge and broken oath! And give me back

my

maiden-vow, And give me back my troth.

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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 fáir,

And yet that face forsake ?
How could you win my virgin heart,

Yet leave that heart to break?

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Why did you say my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid !

Believe the flattering tale ?

“That face, alas! no more is fair,

Those lips no longer red:
Dark are my eyes, now closed 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 smiled

With beams of rosy red :
Pale William quaked 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 !

WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

1714-1763.

ODE TO MEMORY.

Oh Memory! celestial maid !

Who glean’st the flowerets cropp'd by Time; And, suffering not a leaf to fade,

Preserv'st the blossoms of our prime; Bring, bring those moments to my mind When life was new, and Lesbia kind. And bring that garland to my sight

With which my favour'd crook she bound;
And bring that wreath of roses bright

Which then my festive temples crown'd;
And to my raptured ear convey
The gentle things she deign'd to say.
And sketch with care the Muse's bower,

Where Isis rolls her silver tide;
Nor yet omit one reed or flower

That shines on Cherwell's verdant side ;
If so thou may'st those hours prolong,
When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.
The song it ’vails not to recite-

But sure, to sooth our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more bright

Than other banks, than other streams :

Or, by thy softening pencil shown,
Assume thy beauties, not their own.
And paint that sweetly vacant scene,

When, all beneath the poplar bough, My spirits light, my soul serene,

I breathed in verse one cordial vow: That nothing should my soul inspire But friendship warm, and love entire. Dull to the sense of new delight,

On thee the drooping Muse attends; As some fond lover, robb’d of sight,

On thy expressive power depends ; Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines. But let me chase those vows away

Which at ambition's shrine I made; Nor ever let thy skill display

Those anxious moments, ill repaid: Oh! from my breast that season raze, And bring my childhood in its place. Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,

And bring the hobby I bestrode; When, pleased, in many a sportive ring,

Around the room I jovial rode:
Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu,
And bring the whistle that I blew.
Then will I muse, and pensive say,

Why did not those enjoyments last? How sweetly wasted I the day,

While innocence allow'd to waste !
Ambition's toils alike are vain,
But ah! for pleasure yield us pain.

CHARLES WESLEY. 1708–1788.

HYMN OF PRAISE.

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Lo! God is here! let us adore,

And own how dreadful is this place :
Let all within us feel his power,

And silent bow before his face!
Who know his power, his grace who prove,
Serve him with awe, with rev'rence love.
Lo! God is here! him day and night

Th' united choirs of angels sing :
To him, enthroned above all height,

Heaven's host their noblest praises bring :
Disdain not, Lord, our meaner song,
Who praise thee with a stamm’ring torgue.
Gladly the toils of earth we leave,

Wealth, pleasure, fame, for thee alone;
To thee our will, soul, flesh, we give,

Oh take! oh seal them for thine own!
Thou art the God, thou art the Lord :
Be thou by all thy works adored !
Being of beings! may our praise

Thy courts with grateful fragrance fill :
Still may we stand before thy face,

Still hear and do thy sovereign will:
To thee may all our thoughts arise,
Ceaseless, accepted sacrifice.
In thee we move: all things of thee

Are full, thou Source and Life of all:
Thou vast unfathomable Sea!

(Fall prostrate, lost in wonder fall, Ye sons of men! For God is Man!) All may we lose, so thee we gain!

As flowers their op'ning leaves display,

And glad drink in the solar fire,
So may we catch thy every ray,

So may thy influence us inspire;
Thou beam of the eternal beam!
Thou purging fire, thou quick’ning flame!

COMMUNION WITH GOD.

Thou hidden love of God, whose height,

Whose depth unfathom’d, no man knows : I see from far thy bounteous light,

Inly I sigh for thy repose :
My heart is pain’d, nor can it be
At rest, till it finds rest in thee.

Thy secret voice invites me still

The sweetness of thy yoke to prove; And fain I would; but though my will

Seem fix'd, yet wide my passions rove; Yet hind'rances strow all the way; I aim at thee, yet from thee stray.

'Tis mercy all, that thou hast brought

My mind to seek her peace in thee! Yet while I seek, but find thee not,

No peace my wand'ring soul shall see, Oh when shall all my wand'rings end, And all my steps to thee ward tend !

Is there a thing beneath the sun,

That strives with thee my heart to share ! Ah, tear it thence, and reign alone,

The Lord of every motion there: Then shall my heart from earth be free, When it hath found repose in thee.

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