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WILLIAM AND MARGARET.
I WAS at the filent, folemn hour,
In glided Margaret's grimly ghoft,
Her face was like an April-morn,
And clay-cold was her lily-hand,
So fhall the fairest face appear,
When youth and years are flown : Such is the robe that kings muft 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 rofe grew pale, and left her cheek;
She dy'd before her time.
Awake! fhe cry'd, thy true love calls,
Now let thy pity hear the maid,
This is the dumb and dreary hour,
Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Why did you promife love to me,
And not that promise keep?
Why did you fwear my eyes were bright,
How could you fay my face was fair,
How could you win my virgin-heart,
Yet leave that heart to break ?
Why did you fay, my lip was fweet,
And why did I, young witless maiḍ!
Believe the flattering tale?
That face, alas! no more is air,
Thofe lips no longer red:
Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
And every charm is fled.
This winding-fheet I wear:
And cold and weary lafts 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 the lies,
Who dy'd for love of you.
The lark fung loud; the morning fmil'd,
With beams of rofy red:
Pale William quak'd in every limb,
And raving left his bed.
He hy'd him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay;
And ftretch'd him on the green-grafs turf,
That wrap'd her breathless clay.
And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
N. B. In a comedy of Fletcher, called "The Knight of the burning Peftle," old Merry-Thought enters repeating the following verses:
When it was grown to dark midnight,
In came Margaret's grimly ghoft,
And food at William's feet.
This was, probably, the beginning of fome ballad, commonly known, at the time when that author wrote; and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to be met with. Thefe lines, naked of ornament, and fimple as they are, ftruck my fancy: and, bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of.formerly, gave birth to the foregoing poem; which was written many ago. MALLET.
An elegant Latin imitation of this ballad is printed in the works of Vincent Bourne. N.
EPITAPH, on Mr. AIKMAN, and his only Sox: who were both interred in the fame grave.
EAR to the wife and good, disprais'd by none,
Here fleep in peace the father and the fon.
By virtue, as by nature, close ally'd,
The painter's genius, but without the pride;
EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.
THIS humble grave though no proud structures grace,