No. XXXVI. MARGARET'S GHOST. MALLET. 'TWAS at the silent solemn hour, Her face was like an April morn, And clay-cold was her lily hand, So shall the fairest face appear, Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, But love had, like the canker-worm, Consumed her early prime: The rose grew pale, and left her cheek; She died before her time. -"Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls, "Come from her midnight grave; "Now let thy pity hear the maid "This is the dark and dreary hour, "Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge, and broken oath ; "And give me back my "And give me back maiden vow, my troth. 66 Why did ་ you promise love to me, "And not that promise keep? Why did you swear mine eyes were bright, "Yet leave those eyes to weep? "How could you say my face was fair, "And yet that face forsake? "How could you 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 flattering tale? "That face, alas! no more is fair; "These lips no longer red: “Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, every charm is fled. " And "The hungry worm my sister is; "This winding sheet I wear: "And cold and weary lasts our night, "Till that last morn appear. "But hark! the cock has warn'd me hence! "A long and last adieu! "Come see, false man, how low she lies "Who died for love of you." The lark sung loud, the morning smiled Pale William shook in every limb, He hied him to the fatal place, Where Margaret's body lay; And stretch'd him on the grass-green turf, That wrapt 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 grave, And word spake never more. No. XXXVII. THE HERMIT. PARNELL. FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd heav'n itself, till one suggestion rose; That Vice should triumph, Virtue Vice obey, This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway: His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenour of his soul is lost : So, when a smooth expanse receives impress'd Calm nature's image on its watery breast, |