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"TWAS at the filent, folemn hour,
When night and morning meet;

In glided Margaret's grimly ghoft,
And stood at William's feet.


Her face was like an April-morn,
Clad in a wintery cloud;

And clay-cold was her lily-hand,
That held her fable shroud.


So fhall the fairest face appear,

When youth and years are flown : Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown.


'Her bloom was like the fpringing flower,

That fips the filver dew;

The rofe was budded in her cheek,

Juft opening to the view.


But Love had, like the canker-worm,

Confum'd her early prime :

The rofe grew pale, and left her cheek;

She dy'd before her time.

VI. Awake!


Awake! fhe cry'd, thy true love calls,
Come from her midnight-grave;

Now let thy pity hear the maid,
Thy love refus'd to fave.


This is the dumb and dreary hour,
When injur'd ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithlefs fwain.


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?

Why did

you fwear my eyes were bright, Yet leave thofe eyes to weep?


How could you fay my face was fair,
And yet that face forfake?

How could you win my virgin-heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?


Why did you fay, my lip was sweet,
And made the fcarlet pale?

And why did I, young witless maid }
Believe the flattering tale?

XII. That


That face, alas! no more is air

Thofe lips no longer red:

Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
And every charm is fled.


The hungry worm my fifter is;
This winding-sheet I wear:

And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that laft morn appear.


But, hark the cock has warn'd me hence ;

A long and late adieu!

Come, fee, falfe man, how low the lies,

Who dy'd for love of



The lark fung loud; the morning fmil'd,

With beams of rofy red:

Pale William quak'd in every limb,

And raving left his bed.


He hy'd him to the fatal place

Where Margaret's body lay;

And ftretch'd him on the green-grafs turf,

That wrap'd her breathless clay.



And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full fore:

Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spoke never more!

N. B. In a comedy of Fletcher, called "The Knight of the burning Peftle," old Merry-Thought enters repeating the following verses:

When it was grown to dark midnight,

And all were fast asleep,

In came Margaret's grimly ghoft,

And ftood at William's feet.

This was, probably, the beginning of fome ballad, commonly known, at the time when that author wrote; and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to be met with. Thefe lines, naked of ornament, and fimple as they are, ftruck my fancy: and, bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of formerly, gave birth to the foregoing poen; which was written many ago. MALLET. An elegant Latin imitation of this ballad is printed in the works of Vincent Bourne. N.

EPITAPH, on Mr. AIKMAN, and his only Sox: who were both interred in the fame grave.

EAR to the wife and good, difprais'd by none,


Here fleep in peace the father and the fon.
By virtue, as by nature, close ally'd,

The painter's genius, but without the pride;
Worth unambitious, wit afraid to fhine,
Honour's clear light, and Friendship's warmth divine.
The fon, fair-rifing, knew too short a date
But oh, how more fevere the parent's fate !
He faw him torn, untimely, from his fide,
Felt all a father's anguifh, wept, and dÿ'd!


THIS humble grave though no proud structures grace, -
Yet Truth and Goodness fanctify the place:
Yet blameless Virtue, that adorn'd thy bloom,
Lamented maid! now weeps upon thy tomb.
O fcap'd from life! O fafe on that calm fhore,
Where fin, and pain, and paffion are no more!
What never wealth could buy, nor power decree,
Regard and Pity, wait fincere on thee :
Lo! foft Remembrance drops a pious tear;
And holy Friendship stands a mourner here.


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