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Swift after him thy social spirit flies,
And close to his, how soon ! thy coffin lies.
Blest pair ! whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues: each other's boast ! farewell!
Farewell! whom, join'd in fame, in friendship try'd,
No chance could sever, nor the grave

divide.

COLIN AND LUCY.

A BALLAD.

Of Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,

Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream

Reflect so sweet a face:
Till luckless love, and pining care,

Impair'd her rosy hue,
Her coral lips, and damask cheeks,

And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh, have you seen a lily pale,

When beating rains descend?
So droop'd the slow-consuming maid,

Her life now near its end.
By Lucy warn’d, of flattering swains

Take heed, ye easy fair : :
Of vengeance due to broken vows,

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.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew

The solemn boding sound :
And thus, in dying words, bespoke

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,

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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.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell:
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, stretch'd before her rival's corse,

She saw her husband dead.
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,

Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod,

For ever he remains.

Oft at his

grave

the constant hind And plighted maid are seen; With garlands gay, and true-love knots,

They deck the sacred green ;
But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,

This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,

And fear to meet him there.

JAMES HAMMOND.

BORX 1710.-DIED 1742.

ELEGY XIII.

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,
And view their fields, with waving plenty crown'd,
Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold,
And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound:

While calmly poor I trifle life away,
Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,
But, cheaply blest, I'll scorn each vain desire.

With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orclard with its master's hand,
Nor blush to spread the liay, the hook to wield,
Or range my sheaves along the sunny land.

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
Under my armı I'll bring the wanderer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast !
Or, lull'd to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy, sink at last to rest !

Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my Delia, walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur as they glide away!

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on Delia as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!

Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia and myself alone.

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Hers be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender indolence am blest,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguish'd from the rest.

For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough,
lu gloomy forests tend my lonely flock;
For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock:

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