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Now, ftrange to tell! if rural folks fay true,
To harden'd Rock the ftiffening damfel grew;
No more her fhapeless features can be known,
Stone is her body, and her limbs are stone;
The growing rock invades her beauteous face,
And quickly petrifies each living grace;
The fone her ftature nor her shape retains,
The nymph is vanifh'd, but the rock remains.
Yet wou'd her heart its vital Ipirits keep,
And scorn to mingle with the marble heap.

When babbling Fame the fatal tidings bore,
Grief feiz'd the foul of perjur'd Polydore;
Despair and horror rob'd his foul of reft,
And deep compunction wrung his tortur'd breast,
Then to the fatal fpot in haite he hied,
And plung'd a deadly poinard in his fide:
He bent his dying eyes upon the ftone,
And, Take fweet maid" he cried,

"my parting

groan."
Fainting, the fteel he grafp'd, and as he fell,
The weapon pierc'd the Rock he lov'd fo well;
The guiltlefs fteel affail'd the mortal part,
And ftab'd the vital, vulnerable heart.
The life-blood iffuing from the wounded ftone,
Blends with the crimson current of his own,
And tho' revolving ages fince have paft,
The meeting torrents undiminish'd last;
Still gushes out the fanguine ftream amain,
The ftanding wonder of the ftranger fwain.

Now once a year, fo ruftic records tell,
When o'er the heath refounds the midnight bell ;
On eve of Midfummer that foe to sleep,

What time young maids their annual vigils keep.

The tell-tale fhrub fresh gather'd to declare
The fwains who falfe, from those who conftant are;
When ghofts in clanking chains the church-yard walk,
And to the wondering car of fancy talk:

When the fear'd maid fteals trembling thro' the grove,
To kifs the tomb of him who died for love.
When with long watchings, Care, at length oppreft,
Steals broken paufes of uncertain reft;

Nay Grief fhort snatches of repofe can take,
And nothing but Despair is quite awake,
Then, at that hour, fo ftill, fo full of fear,
When all things horrible to thought appear,
Is perjur'd Polydore observ'd to rove
A ghaftly spectre thro' the gloomy grove;
Then to the Rock, the Bleeding Rock repair,
Where fadly fighing, it diffolves to air.

Still when the hour of folemn rites return,
The village train in fad proceffion mourn;
Pluck every weed which might the fpot difgrace,
And plant the faireft field flow'rs in their place.
Around no noxious plant, or floweret grows,
But the firft daffodil, and earliest rose :

The fnow-drop fpreads its whiteft bofom here,
And golden cowflips grace the vernal year;
Here the pale primrofe takes a fairer hue,
And every violet boats a brighter blue.
Here builds the woodlark, here the faithful dove
Laments her loft, or wooes her living love.
Secure from harm is every hallowed neft,
The spot is facred where true lovers rest,

* Midfummer-men, confulted as oracles by village maids.

To guard the Rock from each malignant fprite
A troop of guardian spirits watch by night,
Aloft in air each takes his little ftand,

The neighb'ring hill is hence call'd Fairy Land.*

By contraction Failand, a hill well known in Somersetshire; not far from this is The Bleeding Rock, from which conftantly issues a crimson current.

THE END.

LUCY AND

AND COLIN.

was written by Thomas Tickel, Efq; the celebrated friend of Mr. Addifon, and editor of his works. He was fon of a Clergyman in the north of England, had his education at Queen's college Oxon, was under-fecretary to Mr. Addison and Mr. Cragge, when fucceffively fecretaries of fate; and was lafly (in June 1724) appointed fecretary to the Lord Juftices in Ireland, which place he held till his death in 1740. He acquired Mr. Addison's patronage by a poem in praise of the opera of Rosamond written while he was at the University.

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F Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;

Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid ftream
Reflect fo fair a face.

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

Her coral lips, and damask cheek,
And eyes of gloffy blue.

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