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Long had he seen their secret flame,
And seen it long unmovid: Then with a father's frown at last
Had sternly disapprov'd.
EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM THE CURATE OF
BOWES, IN YORKSHIRE, ON THE SUBJECT OF THE PRECEDING POEM.
TO MR. COPPERTHWAITE, AT MARRICK.
In Edwin's gentle heart, a war
Of differing passions strove: His heart, that durst not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.
Deny'd her sight, he oft behind
The spreading hawthorn crept, To snatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walk'd and wept.
Oft too on Stanemore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moon-light shade, In sighs to pour his soften'd soul,
The midnight-mourner stray'd.
His cheek, where health with beauty glow'd,
A deadly pale o'ercast :
Before the northern blast.
WORTHY SIR, *** As to the affair mentioned in yours, it happened long before my time. I have therefore been obliged to consult my clerk, and another person in the neighbourhood, for the truth of that melancholy event. The history of it is as follows :
The family-name of the young man was Wrightson; of the young maiden Railton. They were both much of the same age; that is, growing up to twenty. In their birth was no disparity : but in fortune, alas! she was his inferior. His father, a hard old man, who had by his toil acquired a handsome competency, expected and required that his son should marry suitably. But, as amor vincit omnia, his heart was unalterably fixed on the pretty young creature already named. Their courtship, which was all by stealth, unknown to the family, continued about a year. When it was found out, old Wrightson, his wife, and particularly their crooked daughter Hannah, fouted at the maiden, and treated her with notable contempt. For they held it as a maxim, and a rustic one it is, “that blood was nothing without groats."
The young lover sickened, and took to his bed about Shrove Tuesday, and died the Sunday sevennight after.
On the last day of his illness, he desired to see his mistress. She was civilly received by the mother, who bid her welcome-when it was too late. But her daughter Hannah lay at his back; to cut them off from all opportunity of exchanging their thoughts.
At her return home, on hearing the bell toll out for his departure, she screamed aloud that her heart was burst, and expired some moments after.
The then curate of Bowes' inserted it in his register, that they both died of love, and were buried in the same grave, March 15, 1714. I am,
The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed ; And weary'd Heaven with fruitless vows,
And fruitless sorrows shed.
“ 'Tis past” he cry'd—“but if your souls
Sweet mercy yet can move,
What they must ever love!”
And bath'd with many a tear: Fast-falling o'er the primrose pale,
So morning dews appear.
But oh! his sister's jealous care,
A cruel sister she! Forbade what Emma came to say ;
“ My Edwin, live for me !"
All human-kind are sons of sorrow boiti:
Whom each endearing name could recommend, The great must suffer, and the good must mourn. Whom all became, wife, sister, daughter, friend,
For say, can Wisdoin's self, what late was thine, Unwarp'd by folly, and by vice unstain'd, Can Fortitude, without a sigh, resign?
The prize of virtue has, for ever, gain'd! Ah, no! when Love, when Reason, hand in hand, From life escap'd, and safe on that calm shore O'er the cold um consenting mourners stand, Where sin and pain and errour are no more, The firmest heart dissolves to soften here:
She now no change, nor you no fear can feel : And Piety applands the falling tear.
Death, to her fame, has fix'd th' eternal seal! Those sacred drops, by virtuous weakness shed, Adorn the living, while they grace the dead: From tender thought their source unblam'd they draw,
A PUNERAL HYMN.
When his loved child the Roman could not save, Ye midnight shades, o'er Nature spread!
Dumb silenee of the dreary hour!
In honour of th' approaching dead, The sage, the patriot, in the parent, wept.
Around your awful terrours pour. And O by grief ally'd, as join'd in fame,
Yes, pour around, The same thy loss, thy sorrows are the same.
On this pale ground, She whom the Muses, whom the Loves deplore,
Through all this deep surrounding gloom, Ev'n she, thy pride and pleasure, is no more:
The sober thought, In bloom of years, in all her virtue's bloom,
The tear untaught,
Those meetest mourners at a tomb.
Lo! as the surplic'd train draw near
To this last mansion of mankind, For vernal freshness, for the balmy breeze,
The slow sad bell, the sable bier, 'Thy tainted winds come pregnant with disease: Sack Xature sunk before the mortal breath,
In holy musings wrap the mind !
And while their beam,
With trembling stream,
Attending tapers faintly dart;
Each mouldering bone,
Each sculptur'd stone,
Strikes mute instruction to the heart !
Now, let the sacred organ blow,
With solemn pause, and sounding slow: His arms revers'd, his recent laurel torn!
Now, let the voice due measure keep, Behold again, at Fate's imperious call,
In strains that sigh, and words that weep; In one dread instant blooming Lincoln fall!
Till all the vocal current blended roll,
Not to depress, but lift the soaring soul.
Who first inform’d our frame with breath: And be, who long, unshaken and serene,
And, after some few stormy days,
No king of fears,
Beneath his shade
His winter past,
Fair Spring at last
Where Pleasure's rose
FROM THE COUNTRY. ing added, to the usual graces of her sex, the more solid accomplishments of knowledge and polite let- At this late hour, the world ljes hush'd below, ters. Mallet.
Nor is one breath of air awake to blow.
In him appears,
Now walks mute Midnight, darkling o'er the plain, These scenes of bliss, no more upbraid my fate, Rest, and soft-footed Silence, in his train,
Torture my pining thought, and rouze my hate. To bless the cottage, and renew the swain.
The leaf-clad forest, and the tufted grove, These all-asleep, me all-awake they find; Erewhile the safe retreats of happy love, Nor rest, nor silence, charm the lover's mind. Stript of their honours, naked, now appear Already, I a thousand torments prove,
This is my soul! the winter of their year! The thousand torments of divided love :
The little, noisy songsters of the wing, The rolling thought, impatient in the breast; All, shivering on the bough, forget to sing. The futtering wish on wing, that will not rest; Hail ! reverend Silence! with thy awful brow! Desire, whose kindled flames, undying, glow;
Be Music's voice, for ever mute-as now : Knowledge of distant bliss, and present woe;
Let no intrusive joy my dead repose Unhush'd, unsleeping all, with me they dwell, Disturb :
:--no pleasure disconcert my woes. Children of absence, and of loving well !
In this moss-cover'd cavern, hopeless laid, These pale the cheek, and cloud the cheerless eye, On the cold cliff, I'll lean my aching head ; Swell the swift tear, and heave the frequent sigh: And, pleas'd with Winter's waste, unpitying, see These reach the heart, and bid the health decline ; All nature in an agony with me! And these, O Mira ! these are truly mine.
Rough, rugged rocks, wet marshes, ruin'd towers, She, whose sweet smile would gladden all the Bare trees, brown brakes, bleak heaths, and rushy grove,
moors, Whose mind is music, and whose looks are love; Dead floods, huge cataracts, to my pleas'd eyesShe, gentle power! victorious softness !-She, (Now I can smile !)-in wild disorder rise: Mira, is far from hence, from love, and me; And now, the various dreadfulness combind, Yet, in my every thought, her form I find, Black Melancholy comes, to doze my mind. Her looks, her words-her world of charms com- See! Night's wish'd shades rise, spreading through
Sweetness is her's, and unaffected ease ; [bin'd! the air, The native wit, that was not taught to please.
And the lone, hollow gloom, for me prepare ! Whatever softly animates the face,
Hail! solitary ruler of the grave ! The eye's attemper'd fire, the winning grace,
Parent of terrours ! from thy dreary care! Th' unstudy'd smile, the blush that nature warms, Let thy dumb silence midnight all the ground, And all the graceful negligence of charms ! And spread a welcome borrour wide around.Ha! while I gaze, a thousand ardours rise ; But hark! a sudden howl invades my ear! And my fir'd bosom flashes from my eyes,
The phantoms of the dreadful hour are near. Oh! melting mildness! miracle of charms ! Shadows, from each dark cavern, now combine, Receive my soul within those folding arms! And stalk around, and mix their yells with mine. On that dear bosom let my wishes rest
Stop, flying Time! repose thy restless wing; Oh! softer than the turtle's downy breast ! Fix here—nor hasten to restore the spring : And see! where Love himself is waiting near! Fix'd my ill fate, so fix'd let winter beHere let me ever dwell—for Heaven is here ! Let never wanton season laugh at me!
A WINTER'S DAY.
WRITTEN IN A STATE OF MELANCHOLY.
THE MASQUE OF BRITANNIA, Now, gloomy soul ! look out—now comes thy turn; SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK", 1755, IN THE CHARACTER OP With thee, behold all ravag'd nature mourn.
A SAILOR, FODDLED AND TALKING TO HIMSELF. Hail the dim empire of thy darling night, That spreads, slow-shadowing, o'er the vanquish'd
Ile enters, singing,
“ How pleasant a sailor's life passes"
A sailor, half seas o’er-'s a pretty fellow;
(To the pit. Mountainous clouds, in rude confusion, roll: No-tight and trim-1 scud before the galeIn dismal pomp, now, hovering on their way,
[He staggers forward, then stops. To a sick twilight, they reduce the day.
But softly though-the vessel seems to heel : And hark ! imprison'd winds, broke loose, arise, Steady! my boy-she must not show her keel. And roar their haughty triumph through the skies.
thus ballasted-what course to steer? While the driven clouds, o'ercharg'd with floods of Shall I again to sea-and bang mounseer? rain,
Or stay on shore, and toy with Sail and SueAnd mingled lightning, burst upon the plain. Dost love 'em, boy? - By this right hand, I do! Now see sad Earth-like thine, her alter'd state, A well-rigg'd girl is surely most inviting : Like thee, she mourns her sad reverse of Fate! There's nothing better, faith-save flip and fighting: Her smile, her wanton looks—where are they now? For shall we sons of beef and freedom stoop, Faded her face, and wrapt in clonds her brow ! Or lower our flag to slavery and soup?
No more, th' ungrateful verdure of the plain; No more, the wealth-crown'd labours of the swain; I Some of the lines too were written by him.
What! shall these parly-vous make such a racket, From art, from jealousy secure;
Fair Thames, along thy flowery side,
(Pulls out a play bill. All their tender hours improving, From this same paper we shall understand Live like us, belov'd and loving! What work's to-night-I'll read your printed hand! But, first refresh a bit-for faith I need itl'il take one sugar-plum—and then I'll read it,
[Takes some tobacco. He reads the play-bill of Zara, which was acted that
TO MR. THOMSON, evening.–At the The-atre-Royal-- Drury-Lane
ON HIS PUBLISHING THE SECOND EDITION OF HIS POEM, sill be presenta-ted a tragedy called SARAH.
Charm'd, and instructed, by thy powerful song, I'm glad 'tis Sarah—Then our Sall may see
I have, unjust, withheld my thanks too long : Her namesake's tragedy: and as for me,
This debt of gratitude, at length, receive,
Warmly sincere, 'tis all thy friend can give.
Thy worth new lights the poet's darken'd name, -a new Masque.
And shows it, blazing, in the brightest fame. Zounds! why a Mask? We sailors hate grimaces: Through all thy various Winter, full are found Ahae-board all, we scorn to hide our faces. Magnificence of thought, and pomp of sound, But what is here, so very large and plain?
Clear depth of sense, expression's heightening grace, Bri-ta-nia-ob Britania !--good again
And goodness, eminent in power, and place! Hazza, boys! by the Royal George I swear,
For this, the wise, the knowing few, commend Tom Coxen, and the crew, shall straight be there. With zealous joy-for thou art Virtue's friend : All free-born souls must take Bri-ta-nia's part,
Ev'n Age, and Truth severe, in reading thee, And give her three round cheers, with hand and That Heaven inspires the Muse, convinc'd, agree. heart. (Going off, he stops.
Thus I dare sing of merit, faintly known,
Nor place, nor power, bestows the sight refin'd;
Or hope reward, by daring to excell?
Unskilful of the age! untaught to gain
Those favours, which the fawning base obtain! With no one talent that deserves applause;
A thousand shameful arts, to thec unknown, With no one aukwardness that laughter draws; Falsehood, and flattery, must be first thy own. Who thinks not, but just echoes what we say; If thy lov'd country lingers in thy breast, A clock, at morn, wound up, to run a day:
Thou must drive out th' unprofitable guest: His larum goes in one smooth, simple strain;
Extinguish each bright aim, that kindles there, He stops : and then, we wind him up again.
And centre in thyself thy every care. St:ll borering round the fair at fifty-four,
But hence that vileness-pleas'd to charm manl'afit to love, unable to give o'er;
kind, A flesh-tiy, that just flutters on the wing,
Cast cach low thought of interest far behind: Asake to buz, but not alive to sting;
Neglected into noble scorn-away Brisk where he cannot, backward where he can;
From that worn path, where vulgar poets stray: The teazing ghost of the departed man.
Inglorious herd ! profuse of venal lays !
By Virtue guided, and by Glory fir'd,
And, by reluctant Envy, slow admir'd,
Dare to do well, and in thy boundless mind,
Embrace the general welfare of thy kind :
Enrich them with the treasures of thy thought, WHERE Thames, along the daisy'd meads, What Heaven approves, and what the Muse has His wave, in lucid mazes, leads,
taught. Silent, slow, serenely flowing,
Where thy power fails, unable to go on, Wealth on either shore bestowing:
Ambitious, greatly will the good undone. There, in a safe, though small retreat,
So shall thy name, through ages, brightening shine, Content and Love have fix'd their seat :
And distant praise, from worth unborn, be thine; Lore, that counts his duty, pleasure;
So shalt thou, happy! merit Heaven's regard, Cuatent, that knows and hugs bis treasure. And find a glorions, though a late reward.
“ But, hark! the cock has war'd me hence;
A long and late adieu !
Come, see, false man, how low she lies,
Who dy'd for love of you.”
The lark sung load; the morning smild, Twas at the silent, solemn hour
With beams of rosy red: When night and morning meet;
Pale William quak’d in every limb, In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And raving left his bed. And stood at William's feet.
He hy'd him to the fatal place Her face was like an April-morn,
Where Margaret's body lay; Clad in a wintry cloud;
And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf, And clay-cold was her lily-hand,
That wrapp'd her breathless clay. That held her sable shroud.
And thrice he callid on Margaret's name, So shall the fairest face appear,
And thrice he wept full sore; When youth and years are flown:
Then laid his cbeek to her cold grave, Such is the robe that kings must wear,
And word spoke never more! When Death has reft their crown.
Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew ;
Just opening to the view.
But, love had, like the canker-worm,
Consum'd her early prime :
She dy'd before her time.
“ Awake!” she cry'd, “thy true love calls,
Come from her midnight-grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid,
Thy love refus'd to save.
N. B. In a comedy of Fletcher, called the Knight
And all were fast asleep,
And stood at William's feet.
Mallet. An elegant Latin imitation of this ballad is printed in the works of Vincent Bourne. N.
“ This is the dumb and dreary hour,
When injur'd ghosts complain;
To haunt the faithless swain.
“ 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?
Yet leave those eyes to weep?
ON MR. AIKMAN, AND HIS ONLY SON; WHO WERE B01 [
INTERRED IN THE SAME GRAVE.
“ How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
Yet leave that heart to break?
Dear to the wise and good, disprais'd by none,
" Why did you say, my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
Believe the flattering tale?
“ That face, alas! no more is fair,
Those lips no longer red :
And every charm is fled.
EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.
“ The hungry worm my sister is;
This winding-sheet I wear:
Till that last morn appear.
Tus humble grave thongh no proud structures