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WAS at the filent, folemn hour,

When night and morning meet ; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April-morn,

Clad in a wintery cloud ;
And clay-cold was her lily-hand,
That held her 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 fips the filver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just 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 dy'd before her time.

VI. Awake!

Awake! The cry'd, 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 dumb and dreary hour,

When injur'd ghosts complain ;
When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless fwain.

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


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

How could you say my face was fair,

And yet that face forfake?
How could


win my virgin-heart,
Yet leave that heart to break ?

Why did you say, my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale ?
And why did I, young witless maid !

Believe the fiattering tale?

XII. That XII,

That face, alas! no more is air,

Those lips no longer red :
Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,

charm is fled.


The hungry worm my sister is ;

This winding-sheet I wear:
And cold and weary lasts our niglit,

Till that last morn appear.

But, hark! the cock has warn’d me hence;

A long and late adieu !
Come, fee, false man, how low she lies,

Who dy'd for love of you.

The lark fung loud.; the morning smil do

With beams of rosy 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 stretch'd him on the green-grass turf,

That wrap'd her breathless clay.


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

And thrice he wept full sore :
Then laid his cheek to her cold

And word spoke never more !

N. B. In a comedy of Fletcher, called " The * Knight of the burning Pestle," old Merry-Thought enters repeating the following verses : When it was grown to dark midnight,

And all were fast alleep,
In came Margaret's grimly ghost,

And food at William's feet. This was, probably, the beginning of some 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. These lines, naked of ornament, and simple as they are, struck my fancy : and, bringing freíh 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.


Ε Ρ Ι.

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EPITAPH, on Mr. AIKMAN, and his only Son: who were both interred in the same

grave. EAR to the wise and good, disprais’d by none,

Here sleep in peace the father and the fon.
By virtue, as by nature, clofe ally'd,
The painter's genius, but without the pride;
Worth unambitious, wit afraid to shine,"
Honour's clear light, and Friendship’s warmth divine.
Thé fon, fair-rising, knew too short a date i
But oh, how more fevere the parent's fate !
He saw him torn, untimely, from his side,
Felt all a father's anguish, wept, and dy'd!


THIS humble grave though no proud ftructures grace,

Yet Truth and Goodness fanctify the place :
Yet blameless Virtue, that adorn’d thy bloom,
Lamented maid ! now weeps upon thy tomb.
O scap'd from life! O safe on that calm shore,
Where fin, and pain, and passion are no more !
What never wealth could buy, nor power decreeg
Regard and Pity, wait fincere on thee :
Lo! soft Remembrance drops a pious tear;
And holy Friendship stands a mourner here.


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