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Why didst thou praise my humble charmes,
And, oh! then leave them to decaye?

Why didst thou win me to thy armes, *

Then leave me to mourne the livelong daye?

The village maidens of the plaine

Salute me lowly as I goe;
Envious, they marke my silken trayne,

Nor think a countesse can have woe.

The simple nymphs! they little knowe,
How far more happy's then. estate,—

To smile for joye—than sigh for woe,—
To be contente, than to be greate.

How fare lesse bleste am I than them?

Dailye to pyne and waste with care! Like the poor plante, that from its stem

Divided—feels the chilling ayre?

Nor (cruel earle!) can I enjoye

The humble charms of solitude;
Your minions proude my peace destroye,

By sullen frownes, or pratings rude.

Laste nyghte, as sad I chanced to straye,
The village deathe-belle smote my eare,

They winked asyde, and seemed to saye,
Countesse, prepare—thy end is neare.

And now, when happye peasantes sleepe.

Here sit I lonely and forlorne, No one to soothe me as I weepe,

Save Phylomel on yonder thorne.

My spirits flag—my hopes decaye—

Still that dread deathe-belle strikes my eare,

And many a boding seems to saye,
Countesse, prepare—thy end is neare.'

Thus sore and sad that ladye grieved,
In Cumnor Halle so lone and dreare;

Full manye a heartfelte sighe shee heaved,
And let falle many a bitter teare.

And ere the dawne of day appeared,
In Cumnor Hall so long and dreare,

Full manye a piercing screame was hearde,
And many a cry of mortal feare.

The deathe-belle thrice was hearde to ring, An aerial voyce was hearde to call,

And thrice the raven flapped his wing
Arounde the towers of Cumnor Halle.

The mastiffe howled at village doore,
The oaks were shattered on the greene;

Woe was the houre—for never more
That haplesse countesse e'er was seene.

And in that manor now no more
Is chearful feaste and sprightly balle;

For ever since that drearie houre
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Halle.

The village maides, with fearful glance,
Avoid the antient moss-growne walle;

Nor ever leade the merrye dance
Among the groves of Cumnor Halle.

Full manye a traveller oft hath sighed,
And pensive wepte the countess' falle,

As wandering onward they've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Halle.


Book! as fair S forms the varied line

Sad sighs or sweetest sympathies are thine—
From pity's lids the glittering tear-drops part,
Or joy's warm surges eddy round the heart,
In louder tones convulsive anguish mourns,
Gay Satyrs dance, and laughter roars by turns.

Book! o'er her desk should whispering sorrows lean,
Or melancholy guide her hand, unseen,
Erase the blotted leaves, with gall impressed,
And soothe with softer notes her gentle breast;
Light round her chair when mirth fantastic moves
With tip-toe graces linked and laughing loves,
O! bid thy page the sweet effusion drink,
Smooth glide the pen, and glossy shine the ink.

Book! may no canker, no corroding worm,
Or mildew damp thy sacred folds deform;
Be thine to register, in folds sublime,
To the last hour of all-subduing time,

How peace round S darts his arrowy rays,

A silver halo circling beauty's blaze.



'Stranger! who sleeps in yonder nameless grave?

I saw thee pause and linger o'er the tomb, Where to the gale those thorns their branches wave,

And evening deepens on that yew-tree's gloom.

'There sleeps my friend,' the pensive stranger cried: 'O'er the blank stone have twenty winters past:

Yet, as the gale amid that yew-tree sighed,
Methought again I heard him breathe his last.

'Yes! for I saw the last convulsive start,

That spoke the struggle closed of life and death:

Felt the last pulse that trembled from his heart;
And heard the sigh that told his parting breath.

'Fixed in his breast the adverse weapon stood'—
'Stranger! when died he in his country's cause?

Blest be the man whose pure and generous blood
Flows for his country's liberty and laws!'

* 0 why the grief of other days recall?
Alas! he died not for his country's sake.

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