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Her snowy Bosom's gentle swell,
Thus, tho' by Fate compell’d to rove
And oft the Sprite with shapings sweet
E'en now within
reed-roofd cot, The world forgetting and forgot, Methinks I feel thy bosom prest Against my highly-beating breast : Methinks my lips with rapture dwell On thy ripe lips nectareous swell, And now delirious transports dart Thro' pulse and nerve, thro' brain and heart, And now exanimate I lie, In the soft trance of extacy.
Ah ! Sarah-Sarah ! must I find
The MAD WOMAN.
The circumstance on which the following Ballad is founded,
kappened not many years ago in Bristol.
The Traveller's hands were white with cold,
The Traveller's lips were blue,
So near was seen in view !
He hasten'd to the village Inn,
That stood the Church-door nigh There sat a Woman on a grave, And he could not
Her feet were bare, and on her breast
did the winter blow,
And the grave was cover'd with snow.
Is there never a christian in the place,
To her the Traveller cried, Who will let thee, this cold winter time,
Sit by his fire side?
I have fire in my head, she answered him, I have fire in
heart also; And there will be no winter time
In the place where I must go !
A curse upon thee, man,
For mocking me! she said ;
In a fever-fit, were red.
And when he to the inn door came,
And the host his greeting gave, He ask'd who that mad woman was Who sat
God in his mercy, quoth the host,
Forgive her for her sin;
Her punishment hath been,
She was so pale and meagre-ey'd,
As scarcely to be known, When to her mother she return'd
From service in the town.
She seldom spake, she never smild,
What ail'd her no one knew, But every day more meagre-pale, And sullen sad she
It was upon last Christmas eve,
As we sat round the hearth, And every
soul but Martha's Was full of Christmas mirth,
She sat, and look'd
the fire That then so fiercely shone, She look'd into it earnestly,
And we heard a stifled groan.
And she shook like a dying wretch
In a convulsive fit; And
she rose, and in the snows, Went out on a grave to sit.