Page images
PDF
EPUB

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 befell,
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 ay for ruth,

Entreats 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,

[ocr errors]

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.

By this the stars began to wink;
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink,
And down ydrops the knight:
For never spell, by fairie laid,
With strong enchantment, bound a glade
Beyond the length of night.

Chill, dark, alone, adreed he lay,
Till up the welkin rose the day,

Then deem'd the dole was o'er:
But wot ye well his harder lot;
His seely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin lost afore.-

This tale a Sybil nurse ared;
She softly stroak'd my youngling head,
And, when the tale was done,
"Thus, some are born, my son," she cries,
"With base impediments to rise,

And some are born with none.
"But virtue can itself advance
To what the fav'rite fools of chance
By fortune seem'd design'd;
Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itself shake off the weight
Upon th' unworthy mind."

§ 116. Edwin and Emma. MALLET. FAR in the windings of a vale,

Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of health and peace,
An humble cottage stood.

There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,
Beneath a mother's eye;

Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her blest, and die.
The softest blush that nature spreads
Gave color to her cheek:
Such orient color smiles through heaven,
When vernal mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
This charmer of the plains:

That sun, who bids their diamonds blaze,
To paint our lily deigns.

Long had she fill'd each youth with love, Each maiden with despair;

And, though by all a wonder own'd.

Yet knew not she was fair.

Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A soul devoid of art;

And from whose eye, serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught,
Was quickly too reveal'd;
For neither bosom lodg'd a wish,
That virtue keeps conceal'd.
What happy hours of home-felt bliss
Did love on both bestow!
But bliss too mighty long to last,
Where fortune proves a foe.

His sister, who, like Envy form'd,
Like her in mischief joy'd,
To work them harm, with wicked skill,
Each darker art employ'd.

The father too, a sordid man,
Who love nor pity knew,
Was all unfeeling as the clod,
From whence his riches grew.
Long had he seen their secret flame,
And seen it long unmov'd:
Then with a father's frown at last
Had sternly disapprov'd.
In Edwin's gentle heart a war
Of differing passions strove :
His heart, that durst not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.
Deny'd her sight, he oft behind

The spreading hawthorn crept,
To snatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walk'd and wept.
Oft, too, on Stanmore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade,
In sighs to pour his soften'd soul,

The midnight mourner stray'd.

His cheek, where health with beauty glow'd, A deadly pale o'ercast :

So fades the fresh rose in its prime,

Before the northern blast.

The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed;

And weary'd Heaven with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrows shed.

""Tis past! he cry'd—but if your souls

Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold
What they must ever love!"
She came; his cold hand softly touch'd,
And bath'd with many a tear:
Fast-falling o'er the primrose pale,
So morning dews appear.

But, oh! his sister's jealous care

A cruel sister she!-
Forbade what Emma came to say;
"My Edwin, live for me!"

Now homeward as she hopeless wept,
The church-yard path along,

The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found

In every bush his hovering shade,
His in every sound.

groan

Alone, appall'd, thus had she pass'd
The visionary vale,

When, lo! the death-bell smote her ear,
Sad sounding in the gale!

Just then she reach'd, with trembling step,
Her aged mother's door:

"He's gone!" she cry'd ;" and I shall see That angel-face no more.

"I feel, I feel this breaking heart

Beat high against my side"

From her white arm down sunk her head; She shiver'd, sigh'd, and dy'd.

§ 117. William and Margaret. Maffit. WHEN all was wrapt in dark midnight,

And all were fast asleep,
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.

Her 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 flower
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 Marg'ret'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!

118. Lucy and Colin, TICKELL.
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.

[ocr errors]

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.

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

Not aware of the danger, I instant comply'd, When he drew from his quiver a dart, And cry'd, "My power you shall know!" Then he levell'd his bow,

And wounded me right in the heart.

120. The Race-Horse. DIBdin. SEE the course throng'd with gazers, the sports are begun, ["Done!" The confusion but hear!-"I'll bet you, sir"Ten thousand strange murmurs resound far and near,

Lords, hawkers, and jockeys assail the tir'd ear: While, with neck like a rainbow, erecting his crest,

Pamper'd, prancing, and pleas'd, his head touching his breast,

Scarcely snuffing the air, he's so proud and elate, The high-mettled racer first starts for the plate. Now Reynard's turn'd out, and o'er hedge and ditch rush [brush;

Hounds, horses, and huntsmen, all hard at his They run him at length, and they have him at bay, [dious way: And by scent, and by view, cheat a long, teWhile, alike born for sports of the field and the course, [fleet horse; Always sure to come through a stanch and 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, Lame, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, but yet with some blood;

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-ale-
house 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 mill,

Or draws sand, till the sand of his hour-glass
stands still.

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!

§ 121. Poor Jack. DIBDIN.

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,

J

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 see,

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

Perhaps I may laughing come back;
For, d'ye see, there's a cherub that sits up aloft
To keep watch for the life of Poor Jack.

"D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch All as one as a piece of the ship,

And with her brave the world without offering to flinch,

From the moment the anchor's a-trip. As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides and ends,

Nought's a trouble from duty that springs; For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's,

And as for my life, 'tis the king's. ' Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me 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."

$122. The Soldier's Grave. DIBDIN. 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 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.
123. Yanko, DIBDIN
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:

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

124. Yanko. DIBDIN.

DEAR Yanko say, and true he say,
All mankind one and t'other,
Negro, mulatto, and Malay,

Through all the world be broder.
In black, in yellow, what disgrace,
That scandal so he use 'em?
For dere no virtue in de face;

De virtue in de bosom.

What harm dere in a shape or make?

What harm in ugly feature? Whatever color, form, he take,

The heart make human creature. Then black and copper both be friend, No color he bring beauty;

For beauty, Yanko say, attend
On him who do him duty.

Dear Yanko say,

&c.

§ 125. Let us all be unhappy together. DIBDIN.
WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,
Alas! are the children of sorrow;
And, though brisk and merry to-day,
We may all be unhappy to-morrow.
For sunshine's succeeded by rain;
Then, fearful of life's stormy weather,
Lest pleasure should only bring pain,
Let us all be unhappy together.
I grant the best blessing we know

Is a friend, for true friendship's a treasure;
And yet, lest your friend prove a foe,
Oh! taste not the dangerous pleasure.
Thus friendship's a flimsy affair,
Thus riches and health are a bubble;
Thus there's nothing delightful but care,
Nor any thing pleasing but trouble.
If a mortal would point out that life
Which on earth could be nearest to heaven,
Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wife
To whom truth and honor are given.
But honor and truth are so rare,
And horns, when they're cutting, so tingle,
That, with all my respect to the fair,
I'd advise him to sigh, and live single.

It appears from these premises plain,
That wisdom is nothing but folly;
That pleasure's a term that means pain,
And that joy is your true melancholy;
That all those who laugh ought to cry,
That 'tis fine frisk and fun to be grieving;
And that, since we must all of us die,
We should taste no enjoyment while living.

126. Poor Peggy. DIBDIN.

POOR Peggy lov'd a soldier lad More, far more, than tongue can tell ye; Yet was her tender bosom sad Whene'er she heard the loud reveille. The fifes were screech-owls to her ears, The drums like thunder seem'd to rattle; Ah! too prophetic were her fears, They call'd him from her arms to battle There wonders he against the foe Perform'd, and was with laurels crown'd; Vain pomp! for soon death laid him low On the cold ground.

Her heart all love, her soul all truth, That none her fears or flight discover, Poor Peg, in guise a comely youth, Follow'd to the field her lover.

Directed by the fife and drum To where the work of death was doing; Where of brave hearts the time was come,

Who, seeking honor, grasp at ruin;

Her very soul was chill'd with woe, New horror came in every sound,

And whisper'd, death had laid him low On the cold ground.

With mute affliction as she stood,
While her woman's fears confound her,
With terror all her soul subdued,

A mourning train came thronging round her.
The plaintive fife, and muffled drum,
The martial obsequies discover;

His name she heard, and cried, "I come,
Faithful, to meet my murder'd lover!"
Then, heart-rent by a sigh of woe,
Fell, to the grief of all around,

Where death had laid her lover low On the cold ground!

« PreviousContinue »