'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; 'I rose up with the cheerful morn, No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; 'Yes, now neglected and despised, 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, '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. 'Nor, cruel earl, can I enjoy The humble charms of solitude! The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, 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 Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. 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, From the Spaniards' late defeat: Hideous yells and shrieks were heard: And with looks by sorrow clouded Frowning on that hostile shore. On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre, 'Heed, O heed our fatal story, You now triumph free from fears, You will mix your joy with tears. 'See these mournful spectres sweeping Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping; 'I, by twenty sail attended, Did this Spanish town affright; I had cast them with disdain, VOL. III. EE |