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Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, When the great Trump shall thrill thee with its warning,

Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost for ever?
O let us keep the soul embalm❜'d and pure

In living virtue, that when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
Th' immortal Spirit in the skies may bloom.

THE WATER-FIENDS.

COLMAN.

ON a wild moor, all brown and bleak,
Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,
There stood a tenement antique,

Lord Hoppergollop's country-house.

Here Silence reign'd, with lips of glue,
And undisturb'd maintain'd her law;

Save when the owl cried, "Whoo! whoo! whoo!"
Or the hoarse crow croak'd, "Caw! caw! caw!"

Neglected mansion!-for 'tis said

Whene'er the snow came feath'ring down, Four barbed steeds, from the Bull's-head, Carried thy master up to town.

Weep, Hoppergollop!-Lords may moan,
Who stake, in London, their estate

On two small rattling bits of bone,

On little figure, or on great.

Swift whirl the wheels-He's gone-A rose
Remains behind, whose virgin look,
Unseen, must blush in wintry snows,

Sweet, beauteous blossom!-'twas the Cook!

A bolder far than my weak note,

Maid of the moor, thy charms demand;
Eels might be proud to lose their coat,
If skinn'd by Molly Dumpling's hand.

Long had the fair one sat alone,

Had none remain'd save only she ;-
She by herself had been-if one
Had not been left, for company.

'Twas a tall youth, whose cheek's clear hue
Was ting'd with health and manly toil;
Cabbage he sow'd; and, when it grew,
He always cut it off, to boil.

Oft would he cry," Delve, delve the hole!
And prune the tree, and trim the root !
And stick the wig upon the pole,

To scare the sparrows from the fruit.”

A small, mute favourite, by day

Follow'd his step; where'er he wheels His barrow round the garden gay,

A bob-tail cur is at his heels.

Ah, man! the brute creation see!
Thy constancy oft needs the spur!
While lessons of fidelity

Are found in ev'ry bob-tail cur.

Hard toil'd the youth, so fresh and strong,

While Bob-tail in his face would look,

And mark his master troll the song"Sweet Molly Dumpling! Oh, thou Cook!"

For thus he sung ;-while Cupid smil❜d-
Pleas'd that the gard'ner own'd his dart,
Which prun'd his passions running wild,
And grafted true-love on his heart.

Maid of the moor! his love return!

True love ne'er tints the cheek with shame : When gard'ners' hearts, like hot-beds, burn, A cook may surely feed the flame.

Ah! not averse from love was she,
Though pure as heaven's snowy flake;
Both lov'd and though a gard❜ner he,
He knew not what it was to rake.

Cold blows the blast-the night's obscure;
The mansion's crazy wainscots crack;
No star appear'd,-and all the moor,
Like ev'ry other moor,-was black.

Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,
The lovely Molly Dumpling sat:
Much did she fear, and much admire
What Thomas Gard'ner could be at.

List'ning, her hand supports her chin;
But, ah! no foot is heard to stir :
He comes not, from the garden, in ;
Nor he, nor little bob-tail cur.

They cannot come, sweet maid! to thee
Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!

And what's impossible can't be ;

And never, never comes to pass !

;

She paces through the hall antique,

To call her Thomas from his toil;
Opes the huge door ;-the hinges creak-
Because the hinges wanted oil.

Thrice, on the threshold of the hall,

She "Thomas!" cried, with many a sob; And thrice on Bob-tail did she call, Exclaiming sweetly" Bob! Bob! Bob!"

Vain maid! a gard'ner's corpse, 'tis said,
In answers can but ill succeed;
And dogs that hear when they are dead,
Are very cunning dogs indeed!

Back through the hall she bent her way;

All, all was solitude around!

The candle shed a feeble ray,—

Though a large mould of four to th' pound.

Full closely to the fire she drew;

Adown her cheek a salt tear stole ; When, lo! a coffin out there flew, And in her apron burnt a hole!

Spiders their busy death-watch tick'd
A certain sign that fate will frown;
The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click❜d-
A certain sign it was not down.

More strong and strong her terrors rose;
Her shadow did the maid appal;
She trembled at her lovely nose,
It look'd so long against the wall.

Up to her chamber, damp and cold,

She climb'd Lord Hoppergollop's stair;

Three stories high-long, dull, and old,
As great Lords' stories often are.

All nature now appear'd to pause;

And "o'er one half the world seem'd dead;" No "curtain'd sleep" had she-because She had no curtains to her bed.

List'ning she lay ;-with iron din

The clock struck twelve; the door flew wide; When Thomas grimly glided in,

With little Bob-tail by his side.

Tall, like the poplar, was his size;

Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks;
Red, red as beet-root were his eyes;
Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks!

Soon as the spectre she espied,

The fear-struck damsel faintly said, "What would my Thomas?"-he replied, "Oh! Molly Dumpling! I am dead.

All in the flower of youth I fell,

Cut off with health's full blossom crown'd; I was not ill-but in a well

I tumbled backwards, and was drown'd.

"Four fathom deep thy love doth lie;
His faithful dog his fate doth share;
We're Fiends-this is not he and I;
We are not here-for we are there.

"Yes; two foul Water-fiends are we;
Maid of the moor, attend us now!
Thy hour's at hand-we come for thee!"'
The little Fiend-cur said, " bow, wow!"

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