Here ended all the phantom-play;
They smelt the fresh approach of day,
And heard a cock to crow;
The whirling wind, that bore the crowd
Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud,
To warn them all to go.
Then screaming all at once they fly,
And all at once the tapers die;

Poor Edwin falls to floor:
Forlorn his state, and dark the place,
Was never wight in such a case

Through all the land before! But, soon as dan Apollo rose, Full jolly creature home he goes!

He feels his back the less; His honest tongue and steady mind Had rid him of the lump behind,

Which made him want success: With lusty livelyhed he talks, He seems a-dauncing as he walks; His story soon took wind; And beauteous Edith sees the youth Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, Without a bunch behind!

The story told, Sir Topaz mov'd,
(The youth of Edith erst approv'd)
To see the revel scene:

At close of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin'd dome

All on the gloomy plain.
As there he bides, it so befel,
The wind came rustling down a dell,
A shaking seiz'd the wall:
Up sprung the tapers, as before,
The fairies bragly foot the floor,
And music fills the hall.

But, certes, sorely sunk with woe
Sir Topaz sees the elfin show,

His spirits in him die;

When Oberon cries, "A man is near; A mortal passion, cleped fear,

Hangs flagging in the sky."

With that sir Topaz, hapless youth!
In accents falt'ring aye for ruth,
Intreats them pity graunt;
For als he been a mister wight
Betray'd by wand'ring in the night

To tread the circling haunt.
"Ah, losel vile!" at once they roar,
"And little skill'd of fairie lore,

Thy cause to come we know:
Now has thy kestrell courage fell;
And fairies, since a lye you tell,

Are free to work thee woe."
Then Will who bears the wispy fire
To trail the swains among the mire,
The captive upward flung;
There, like a tortoise in a shop,
He dangled from the chamber-top,
Where whilom Edwin hung.
The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they frisk it o'er the place,

They sit, they drink, and eat;
The time with frolic mirth beguile,
And poor sir Topaz hangs the while,
Till all the rout retreat.

$133. Song. THOMSON.
FOR ever, Fortune! wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to love,
And when we meet a mutual heart,
Come in between, and bid us part;
Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish, and wish the soul away,
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of love is gone?
But busy, busy, still art thou,
To bind the loveless, joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,
To join the gentle to the rude.

For once, O Fortune! hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care;
All other blessings I resign,

Make but the dear Amanda mine.

§ 135. William and Margaret.

WHEN all was wrapt in dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,
In glided Margaret's grinily ghost,
And stood at William's feet.

Het face was like the April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held the sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear

When youth and years are flown;
Such is the robe that kings must wear
When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flow'r
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
And opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consum'd her early prime;

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She died before her time.

Awake! she cried, thy true-love calls,
Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refus'd to save:

This is the dark and fearful hour

When injur'd ghosts complain:
Now dreary graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.
Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath,
And give me back my maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.
How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?

How could 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 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,
That lip 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 last adieu!

Come see, false man! how low she lies
That died for love of you.

Now birds did sing, and Morning smil'd,
And show'd her glittering head;
Pale William shook in every limb,
Then, raving, left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margret's body lay,
And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf
That wrapt her breathless clay:

And thrice he call'd on Marg'ret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to the cold earth,
And word spoke never more.

§ 136. Lucy and Colin.

OF Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so fair a face;

Till luckless love, and pining care,
Impair'd her rosy hue,

Her coral lips and damask cheeks,
And eyes of glossy blue.

O have you seen a lily pale,

When beating rains descend?
So droop'd the slow-consuming maid,
Her life now near its end.
By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains
Take heed, ye easy fair;

Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjur'd swains, beware.
Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring,
And, shrieking at her window thrice,
A raven flapp'd his wing.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound,
And thus in dying words bespoke
The virgins weeping round:

I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says, I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,

Which beckons me away.
By a false heart, and broken vows,
In early youth I die:

Am I to blame because his bride
Is thrice as rich as I?

Ah Colin! give not her thy vows,

Vows due to me alone;

Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.
To-morrow in the church to wed,
Impatient both prepare ;

But know, fond maid, and know, false man,

That Lucy will be there!

There bear my corpse, ye comrades, bear,
The bridegroom blithe to meet;
He in his wedding-trim so gay,

I in my winding-sheet.

She spoke, she died! her corse was borne,
The bridegroom blithe to meet,
He in his wedding-trim so gay,
She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?
How were those nuptials kept?
The bridemen flock'd round Lucy, dead,
And all the village wept.
Compassion, shame, remorse, despair,
At once his bosom swell;

The damps of death bedew'd his brows,
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride (ah, bride no more!)

The varying crimson fled;
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,

She saw her husband dead.
He, to his Lucy's new-made grave

Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod,
For ever now remains.

Oft at this grave the constant hind,
And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the sacred green.

But, swain forsworn! whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

When, fairly run down, the fox yields up his breath,

The high-mettled racer is in at the death.

Grown aged, us'd up, and turn'd out of the stud, [some blood; Lame, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, but yet with While knowing postilions his pedigree trace, Tell his dam won this sweepstakes, his sire gain'd that race; [o'er, And what matches he won to the ostlers count As they loiter their time at some hedge-alehouse door;

While the harness sore galls, and the spurs his sides goad,

The high-mettled racer's a hack on the road. Till, at last, having labor'd, drudg'd early

and late,

Bow'd down by degrees, he bends to his fate; Blind, old, lean, and feeble, he tugs round a [stands still.

mill,

Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass And now, cold and lifeless, expos'd to the view In the very same cart which he yesterday drew, While a pitying crowd his sad relics surrounds, The high-mettled racer is sold for the hounds!

§ 139. Poor Jack. By the same. Go patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see, 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like;

A tight-water boat and good sea-room give me,
And t'ent to a little I'll strike:
Though the tempest top-gallant masts smack
smooth should smite,

And shiver each splinter of wood; Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouse every thing tight,

And under reef'd foresail we'll scud. Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft

To be taken for trifles aback,

For they says there's a Providence sits up aloft

To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack. Why, I heard the good chaplain palaver one day About souls, heaven, mercy, and such, And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay!

Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch. But he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye

Without orders that come down below, [see, And many fine things that prov'd clearly to me That Providence takes us in tow. For, says he, do you mind me, let storms e'er There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft Take the top-sails of sailors aback, [so oft

To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

I said to our Poll, for you see she would cry,

When at last we weigh'd anchor for sea, What argufies sniv'ling, and piping your eye? Why, what a damn'd fool you must be! Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us all,

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore? And if to old Davy I should go, friend Poll, Why, you never will hear of me more.

ends,

When Theseus on the naked shore
Fair Ariadne left,

D'ye think she did her fate deplore,
Or her fine locks or bosom tore,
Like one of hope bereft ?
Not she, indeed. Her fleeting love
And as gay Bacchus' tigers move,
From mortal turus divine;
His car ascends amidst a grove
Who lead the jolly pair along,
Of vines, surrounded by a throng,

Almost half-gone with wine.

Ma'am Helen lov'd the Phrygian boy,
He thought her all his own:
But hottest love will soonest cloy,

so soft

As for grief to be taken aback :

That same little cherub that sits up aloft Will look out a good birth for Poor Jack.

§ 140. By the same.

Or all sensations pity brings,

To proudly swell the ample heart,

From which the willing sorrow springs,
In others' grief that bears a part:
Of all sad sympathy's delights,
The manly dignity of grief,
A joy in mourning that excites,
And gives the anxious mind relief:
Of these would you the feeling know,
Most gen'rous, noble, greatly brave,
That ever taught a heart to glow,

Tis the tear that bedews a soldier's grave.

For hard and painful is his lot;

Let dangers come, he braves them all Valiant, perhaps, to be forgot,

Or undistinguish'd doom'd to fall. Yet wrapt in conscious worth secure, The world, that now forgets his toil, He views from a retreat obscure,

;

And quits it with a willing smile. Then, trav'ller, one kind drop bestow, "Twere graceful pity, nobly brave; Nought ever taught the heart to glow Like the tear that bedews a soldier's grave.

§ 141. By the same.

WHAT though from Venus Cupid sprung,
No attribute diyine

(Whate'er the bawling bards have sung)
Had he, his bow till Bacchus strung,
And dipt his darts in wine;
Till old Silenus plung'd the boy
In nectar from the vine:
Then love, that was before a toy,
Became the source of mortal joy;
The urchin shook his dewy wings,
And careless levell'd clowns and kings;
Such power has mighty wine!

But for the wife of Thone. She, merry gossip, mix'd a cup

Of tipple right divine,

To keep love's flagging spirits up,
And Helen drank it every sup:
This liquor is 'mongst learned elves
Nepenthe call'd; but, 'twixt ourselves
"Twas nothing more than wine.

Of Lethe, and its flow'ry brink,
Let musty poets prate,
Where thirsty souls are said to drink,
That never they again may think
Upon their former state:
What is there in this soulless lot,
I pray you, so divine?

Grief finds the palace and the cot,
Which, for a time, were well forgot
Come here then, in our Lethe share,
The true oblivion of your care
Is only found in wine.

§ 142. By the sume.
YANKO he tell, and he tell no lie,
We near one pretty brook,
Him flowing hair, him lovely eye,
Sweetly on Orra look:

Him see big world, fine warrior men,
Grand cruel king love blood;
Great king! but Yanko say what den
If he no honest good?

Virtue in foe be virtue still,

Fine stone be found in mine:
The sun one dale, as well one hill,
Make warm where'er him shine.
You broder him, him broder you,
So all the world should call;
For nature say, and she say true,
That men be broder all."

If cruel man, like tiger grim,
Come bold in thirst of blood,
Poor man be noble, pity him,
That he no honest good:
Virtue in foe be virtue still,

Fine stone be found in mine:
The sun one dale, as well one hill,

Make warm where'er him shine.