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Why didst thou praise my humble charmes,
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;
Nor think a countesse can have woe.
The simple nymphs! they little knowe,
To smile for joye—than sigh for woe,—
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;
By sullen frownes, or pratings rude.
Laste nyghte, as sad I chanced to straye,
They winked asyde, and seemed to saye,
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,
Thus sore and sad that ladye grieved,
Full manye a heartfelte sighe shee heaved,
And ere the dawne of day appeared,
Full manye a piercing screame was hearde,
The deathe-belle thrice was hearde to ring, An aerial voyce was hearde to call,
And thrice the raven flapped his wing
The mastiffe howled at village doore,
Woe was the houre—for never more
And in that manor now no more
For ever since that drearie houre
The village maides, with fearful glance,
Nor ever leade the merrye dance
Full manye a traveller oft hath sighed,
As wandering onward they've espied
LINES WRITTEN ON THE FIRST LEAF OF A LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK.
Book! as fair S forms the varied line
Sad sighs or sweetest sympathies are thine—
Book! o'er her desk should whispering sorrows lean,
Book! may no canker, no corroding worm,
How peace round S darts his arrowy rays,
A silver halo circling beauty's blaze.
THE DUELLIST, AN ELEGY.
'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,
'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;
'Fixed in his breast the adverse weapon stood'—
Blest be the man whose pure and generous blood
* 0 why the grief of other days recall?