Thy form benign, O goddess, wear,
Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philofophic train be there

To foften, not to wound my heart :
The gen'rous fpark extinct revive,
Teach me to love, and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to scan,

What others are to feel, and know myself a man.

WILLIAM AND MARGARET*.

TWAS

WAS at the filent folemn hour,
When night and morning meets

In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And ftood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April-morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud :

And clay-cold was her lily hand,

That held her fable fhrowd.

* By David Mallet, Efq.

So

So fhall 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 fpringing flower,
That fips the filver dew;

The rofe was budded in her cheek,
Juft opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,

Confum'd her early prime :

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She died before her time.

Awake! fhe cry'd, thy true love calls,
Come from her midnight-grave;

Now let thy pity hear the maid,
Thy love refus'd to fave.

This is the dumb and dreary hour,
When injur'd ghosts complain;

When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithlefs fwain.

Be

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath :
And give me back my maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.

Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?

Why did

you fwear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?

How could you fay my face was fair,
And yet that face forfake?

How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?

Why did

you fay my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale?

And why did I, young witlefs maid,
Believe the flattering tale?

That face, alas! no more is fair;

Those lips no longer red:

Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
And every charm is fled.

The hungry worm my fifter is;

The 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 late adieu !

Come, fee, falfe man, how low fhe lies,
Who died for love of you.

The lark fung loud; the morning fmil'd,
With beams of rofy red:

Pale William quak'd in every
And raving left his bed.

limb,

He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay;

And stretch'd him on the grass-green turf,
That wrap'd her breathlefs clay.

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,

And thrice he wept full fore:

Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,

And word spoke never more!

WINI

WINIFRED A.

AWAY! let nought to love displeasing,

My Winifreda, move your care;

Let nought delay the heavenly bleffing,
Nor fqueamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What tho' no grants of royal donor

With pompous titles grace our blood; We'll fhine in more fubftantial honours, And to be noble we'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
We'll fweetly found where-e'er 'tis fpoke:
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect fuch little folk.

What tho' from fortune's lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we poffefs;
We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excess.

What