COLIN A
AND LUCY.

A BAL L A D.

Through all Tickell's works there is a ftrain of ballad-thinking, if I may fo express it; and, in this profeffed ballad, he seems to have furpaffed himself. It is, perhaps, the best in our language in this way.

F Leinfter, fam'd for maidens fair,

OF

Bright Lucy was the grace;

Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid ftream

Reflect fo fweet a face;

Till luckless love, and pining care,

Impair'd her rofy hue,

Her coral lips, and damask cheeks,
And eyes of gloffy blue.
Oh! have you seen a lily pale,
When beating rains defcend?

So droop'd the flow-confuming maid,
Her life now near its end.

By Lucy warn'd, of flatt'ring fwains
Take heed, ye easy fair :

Of vengeance due to broken vows,

Ye perjur'd fwains, beware.

Three

Three times, all in the dead of night,

A bell was heard to ring;

And, fhrieking at her window thrice,
The raven flapp'd his wing:

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The folemn boding found:
And thus, in dying words, bespoke,
The virgins weeping round:
"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which fays, I must not stay;

I fee a hand you cannot fee,
Which beckons me away.

By a false heart, and broken vows,
In early youth I die:

Was I to blame, because his bride

Was thrice as rich as I?

"Ah Colin! give not her thy vows,

Vows due to me alone:

Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kifs,
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!

"Then bear my corfe, my comrades bear,

This bridegroom blith to meet;

He in his wedding trim fo gay,

I in my winding-fheet."

She

She fpoke, fhe dy'd; her corfe was borne,
The bridegroom blith to meet,

He in his wedding-trim fo gay,

She in her winding-fheet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?
How were these nuptials kept?
The bridefmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confufion, fhame, remorfe, defpair,
At once his bofom fwell:

The damps of death bedew'd his brow;
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride, ah bride no more!
The varying crimson fled,

When, ftretch'd before her rival's corse,
She faw her husband dead.

Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Convey'd by trembling fwains,

One mould with her, beneath one fod,
For ever he remains.

Oft, at this grave, the conftant hind,
And plighted maid, are feen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the facred green;
But, fwain forfworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,

And fear to meet him there.

THE

This ode, by Dr. Smollet, does rather more honour to the author's feelings than his tafte. The mechanical part, with regard to numbers and language, is not fo perfect as fo short a work as this requires; but the pathetic it contains, particularly in the last stanza but one, is exquifitely fine.

MOURN,

I.

OURN, haplefs Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!

Thy fons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie flaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hofpitable roofs no more,
Invite the ftranger to the door;
In fmoaky ruins funk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

II.

The wretched owner fees, afar,
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then fmites his breaft, and curfes life.

Thy

Thy fwains are famish'd on the rocks,

Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins fhriek in vain ;

Thy infants perish on the plain.

III.

What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime,
Thro' the wide-fpreading wafte of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke :
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage, and rancour fell.

IV.

The rural pipe, and merry lay
No more fhall chear the happy day:
No focial scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night :
No ftrains, but those of forrow, flow,
And nought be heard but founds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the flain
Glide nightly o'er the filent plain.

V.

Oh baneful caufe, oh, fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The fons, against their fathers flood;
The parent shed his children's blood.

Yet,