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'No more thou comest with lover's speed,

Thy once beloved bride to see;

But be she alive, or be she dead,

I fear (stern earl) 's the same to thee.

'Not so the usage I received,

When happy in my father's hall;
No faithless husband then me grieved,
No chilling fears did me appal.

'I rose up with the cheerful morn,

No lark more blithe, no flower more gay;
And, like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the livelong day.
"If that my beauty is but small,
Among court ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that hall
Where, scornful earl, it well was prized?
'And when you to me first made suit,
How fair I was you oft would say !
And, proud of conquest, pluck'd the fruit;
Then left the blossom to decay.

'Yes, now neglected and despised,
The rose is pale-the lily's dead-
But he that once their charms so prized

Is sure the cause those charms are fled. 1

For know, when sickening grief doth prey, And tender love's repaid with scorn,

The sweetest beauty will decay—

What floweret can endure the storm?

'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady's passing rare;
That eastern flowers that shame the sun
Are not so glowing, not so fair.

'Then, earl, why didst thou leave the bed Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gaudes are by? ''Mong rural beauties I was one,

Among the fields wild flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, And thought my beauty passing rare. But, Leicester (or I much am wrong), Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

'Then, Leicester, why, again I plead (The injured surely may repine), Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine? 'Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And, oh! then leave them to decay? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave to mourn the livelong day? 'The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go; Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have woe. 'The simple nymphs, they little know How far more happy's their estateTo smile for joy-than sigh for woeTo be content-than to be great.

'How far less bless'd am I than them!

Daily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air.

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'Nor, cruel earl, can I enjoy

The humble charms of solitude!
Your minions proud my peace destroy,
By sullen frowns or pratings rude.
'Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear;
They wink'd aside, and seem'd to say,
Countess, prepare-thy end is near.
'And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn :
No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.
'My spirits flag-my hopes decay-
Still that dread death-bell smites my ear;
And many a boding seems to say,
Countess, prepare-thy end is near.'
Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear;
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.
And ere the dawn of day appear'd,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapp'd its wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff howl'd at village door,

The oaks were shatter'd on the green;

Woe was the hour-for never more

That hapless countess e'er was seen.

And in that manor now no more
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.
The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall;
Nor ever lead the merry dance

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. Full many a traveller oft hath sigh'd, And pensive wept the countess' fall, As wandering onwards they've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall!

MICKLE.

ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST.

As near Porto Bello lying

On the gently swelling flood,
At midnight with streamers flying
Our triumphant navy rode;
There while Vernon sat all glorious

From the Spaniards' late defeat:
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
Drank success to England's fleet:
On a sudden, shrilly sounding,

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard:
Then each heart with fear confounding,
A sad troop of ghosts appear'd,
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,
Which for windingsheets they wore,

And with looks by sorrow clouded

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Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster,
Rising from their watery grave:
O'er the glimmering wave he hied him,
Where the Burford rear'd her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,
And in groans did Vernon hail—

'Heed, O heed our fatal story,
I am Hosier's injured ghost,
You who now have purchased glory
At this place where I was lost;
Though in Porto Bello's ruin

You now triumph free from fears,
When you think on our undoing,

You will mix your joy with tears.

'See these mournful spectres sweeping
Ghastly o'er this hated wave,

Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping;
These were English captains brave:
Mark those numbers pale and horrid,
Those were once my sailors bold,
Lo, each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.

'I, by twenty sail attended,

Did this Spanish town affright;
Nothing then its wealth defended
But my orders not to fight:
O! that in this rolling ocean

I had cast them with disdain,
And obey'd my heart's warm motion
To have quell'd the pride of Spain;

VOL. III.

EE

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