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The dreadful thunder storm at length is past, U7

The hour and its terrors are past, **

There is a flower, a little flower?

There is a land, of every land the pride, 80

There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet, 1«

The silver lamp burns dead and dim, jTM

The soft blooms of summer are fair to the eye 130

They bid me sleep—they bid me prayf 218

They have made her a grave too cold and damp 12*

Those evening bells, those evening bells 229

Thou art come from the spirits' land, thou bird 17

Thou fairy amorist! in the forest singing 131

Though time hath not wreathed,

Through many a land and clime a ranger »

'Tis thou that soothest the deathbed of the saint 117

'T»as summer, and a Sabbath eve - «U

Upon yon dial-stone *

Weep, Emmeline, weep

Weep not for me, mother! because I must die 17b

What hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells? 82

What's earthly hope ?—a worthless thing •— 20*

When night sits on the earth, and tower and town - 158

When the last sunshine of expiring day ■»

When the sun is laid in his purple shroud **

When the sun shines out bright,

When years of pain and peril past, •• •— 1**

Where are you with whom in life I started **»

Who hushed my infant cares to rest • *

< Why loves my flower, (the sweetest flower,)' wj

Wild as the rocking of a bark upon a stormy sea 1H

With fruitless labour Clara bound, *

Yea,—if the world have loved thee not, l«j

Yes, thou art changed since Brst we met, ....

Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh, » j**

Yes! I have seen the ancient oak „....- j .

Yet such the destiny of all on earth, ..........w...**«

THE

POETICAL MELANGE.

CUMNOR HALL.

The famous Earl of Leicester, Queen Elizabeth's favourite, was early married to the unfortunate subject of the following poem, by name Amy Ilobsart. Afier his advancement at Court, his former love to his Countess was changed into hatred, as he considered her as the only bar to his ambitions project of marrying Queen Elizabeth. Accordingly, far from bringing her to Court, he confined her in an ancient Gothic building in Berkshire, upon his manor of Cumnor, which had formerly been an Abbey. From this dreary solitude she disappeared so very unaccountably, and her husband's account of her death seemed so suspicious, that it was generally believed sbe was there murdered. The particulars which led to these suspicions may be found in a book called Leicester's Commonwealth, well known to book-collectors, and supposed to be written by Parsons the Jesuit. VOL. III. A

This beautiful ballad was written by William Julius Mickle, the translator of the Lusiad, and published in Evan's Ancient Ballads. The Author of Waverley's admiration of the ballad induced him to found, on the same incidents, the popular Romance of Kenilworth.

X He dews of night did falle,
The moone (sweet regente of the sky,)

Silvered the walls of Cumnor Halle,
And many an oake that grew tberebye.

Now noughte was hearde beneathe the skies,
(The soundes of busye life were stille,)

Save an unhappie ladies sighes
That issued from that lonely pile.

'Leicester,' shee cried, ' is thys thy love-
That thou so oft has sworne to mee,

To leave mee in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privitie?'

No more thou com'st with lover's speede,

Thy once-beloved bryde to see;
But bee she alive, or bee she deade,

I feare (steme earle's) the same to thee.

Not such the usage I received,

When happye in my father's halle;

No faithlesse husbande then me grieved;
No chilling fears did me appalle.

I rose up with the cheerful morne,

No lark more blithe, no flower more gaye;

And, like the bird that hauntes the thorne,
So merrillie sung the live-long daye.

Say that my beautye is but smalle,

Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that halle,

Where (scornful earle,) it well was prizede?

And when you first to mee made suite,
How fayre I was, you oft woulde saye!

And, proude of conquest—plucked the fruite,
Then lefte the blossom to decaye.

Yes, now neglected and despised,
The rose is pale—the lily's deade—

But hee that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are decide.

For knowe, when sickening griefe doth preye,
And tender love's repay'd with scorne,

The sweetest beautye will decaye;
What flow'ret can endure the storme?

At Court I'm tolde is beautye's throne,
Where everye lady's passing rare:

The eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing—not so fair.

Then, earle, why didst thou leare those bedds,
Where roses and where lilys vie,

To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken—when those gaudes are bye?

'Mong rural beauties I was one,

Among the fields wild flowers are faire;

Some countrye swayne might mee hare won, And thoughte my beautie passing rare.

But, Leicester, (or I much am wronge,)
Or 'tis not beautye fires thy vowes;

Rather ambition's gilded crowne

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

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. Then, Leicester, why, again I pleade,
(The injured surelie may repyne,)
Why didst thou wed a countrye maide,
When some fair princesse might be thyne?

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