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Swift after him thy social spirit flies,
COLIN AND LUCY.
Of Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Reflect so sweet a face:
Impair'd her rosy hue,
And eyes of glossy blue.
Oh, have you seen a lily pale,
When beating rains descend?
Her life now near its end.
Take heed, ye easy fair : :
Ye perjur'd swains, beware.
Three times, all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring;
And shrieking at her window thrice,
The raven flapp'd his wing.
The solemn boding sound :
The virgins weeping round:
“ I hear a voice, you cannot hear,
“ Which says, I must not stay; “ I see a hand, you cannot see,
6 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,
6. 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 !
6. Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear,
“ This 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 these nuptials kept? The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
At once his bosom swell:
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.
From the vain bride, ah, bride no more!
The varying crimson fled,
She saw her husband dead.
Convey'd by trembling swains,
For ever he remains.
Oft at his
the constant hind And plighted maid are seen; With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the sacred green ;
This hallow'd spot forbear;
And fear to meet him there.
BORX 1710.-DIED 1742.
Te imagines himself married to Delia, and that, content with each
other, they are retired into the country.
Let others boast their heaps of shining gold,
While calmly poor I trifle life away,
With timely care I'll sow my little field,
If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
Hers be the care of all my little train,
For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough,