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With cane extended far I sought

To steer it close to land,
But ftill the prize, though nearly caught,

Escap d my eager hand.
Beau watch'd my unsuccessful pains,

With fix'd confid'rate face,
And, puzzling, set his puppy brains

To comprehend the case.
But with a chirrup, clear and strong,

Dispersing all his dream,
I then withdrew, and follow'd long

The windings of the stream.
My ramble finish’d, I return’d;

Beau trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discern'd,

And plunging left the shore.
I saw him, with that lily croppid,

Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd

The treasure at my feet. Charm’d with the fight, the world, I cry'd,

Shall know of this thy deed;
My dog shall mortify the pride

Of man's fuperior breed.
But chief myself I will enjoin,

Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine,

To Him who gives me all.

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

THE DOUBLET OF GREY.

BY MRS. ROBINSON.

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A dark foreft now blackens the mound: Where often, at dawn-light, the deep-founding bell Tolls sadly and folemn a soul-parting knell,

While the ruin re-echoes the found. Yet long has the castle been left to decay,

For its ramparts are skirted with thorn; And no one by moon-light will venture that way, Left they meet the poor maid, in her doublet of grey,

As she wanders, all pale and forlorn! " And why should she wander? O tell me, I pray,

“ And, 'O! why does she wander alone ?" Beneath the dark ivy, now left to decay, With no shroud, but a coarse simple doublet of grey,

Lies her bosom as cold as a stone.
Time was when no form was so fresh, or so fair,

Or fo comely, when richly array'd;
She was tall; and the jewels that blaz’d in her hair
Could no more with her eye's living luftre compare,

Than a rose with the cheek of the maid.
She lov'd!—but the youth who had vanquishi'd her hearty,

Was the heir of a peasant's hard toil;
For no treasure had he; yet a stranger to art,
He would oft by a look to the damsel impart.

What the damsel receiy'd with a smile..

And a grave

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Whene'er to the wake or the chase she would

gos
The
young

Theodore loiter'd that way;
Did the sun-beams of summer invitingly glow,
Or across the bleak common the winter winds blow,

Still he watch'd till the closing of day.
Her parents so wealthy, her kindred so proud,

Heard the story of love with dismay;
They rav’d, and they storm’d, by the Virgin they vow'd,
That, before they would see her so wedded, a throud

Should be Madeline's bridal array.
One night, it was winter, all dreary and cold,

And the moon-beams shone paly and clear;
When she open'd her lattice, in hopes to behold
Her Theodore's form, when the turret-bell tolld,

And the blood in her heart froze for fear;
Near the green-mantled moat her stern father she spy'd,

he was making with speed;
The light, which all filver'd the castle's strong fide,
Display'd his wild gestures, while madly he cry'd

“i Curs'd caitiff! thy bosom shall bleed!" Distracted, forlorn, from the castle of pride,

She escap'd at the next close of day,
Her soft blushing cheek, with dark berries all dy'd,
With a spear on her shoulder, a sword by her side,

And her form in a doublet of grey.
She travers'd the court, not a vassal was seen,

Through the gate hung with ivy she flew :
The sky was unclouded, the air was serene,
The moon shot its

rays

ng vistas between,
And her doublet was spangled with dew.
O'er the cold breezy downs to the hamlet she hy'd,

Where the cottage of Theodore stood;
For its low roof of rushes she oft had descry'd,
When she drank of the brook that foam'd wild by its side,

While the keen hunters travers'd the wood.
The sky on a sudden grew dark, and the wind,

With a deep sullen murmur, rush'd by;
She wander'd about, but no path could she find,
While horrors on horrors encompass’d her mind,

When she found that no shelter was nigh.

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And now, on the dry wither'd fern, she could hear

The hoofs of swift horses rebound;
She stopp’d, and she listen'd, she trembled with fear,
When a voice most prophetic and fad met her ear,

And she shudder'd and shrunk at the found. so 'Tis here we will wait," cry'd the horseman; “ for see

“ How the moon with black clouds is o'erspread; “ No hut yields a shelter, no forest a treeThis heath shall young Theodore's bridal-couch be,

“ And the cold earth shall pillow his head. “ Hark! some one approaches :- now stand we aside,

“ We shall know him—for see the moon's clear; " In a doublet of grey he now waits for his bride, But, ere dawn-light; the carle shall repent of his pride,

And his pale mangled body rest here.”
Again, the moon shrouded in clouds, o'er the plain

The horsemen were scatter'd far wide;
The night became stormy, the falt falling rain
Beat hard on her bosom, which dar'd not complain,

And the torrent rolld swift by her side.
Now clashing of swords overwhelm'd her with dread,

While her ear met the deep groan of death; “ Yield, yield thee, bold peasant," the murderer faid, “ This turf with thy heart's dearest blood shall be red,

“ And thy bones whiten over the heath.” Now shrieking, despairing, she starts from the ground,

And her spear, with new strength she lets go:
She aim'd it at random, she felt it rebound
From the sure hand of Fate, which inflicted the wound,

As it drank the life-blood of her foe.
The morning advanc'd, o'er the pale chilling skies

Soon the warm rofy cints circled wide;
But, oh God! with what anguish, what terror she flies,
When her father, all cover'd with wounds, she descries

With her lover's pale corpse by his Gde! Half frantic she fell on her parent's cold breast,

And she bath'd her white bosom with gore; Then, in anguish, the form of her Theodore press’d-I will yet be thy bride, in the grave we will rell,"

She exclaim'd; and she suffer'd no morc.

Now o'er the wild heath, when the winter winds blow,

And the moon-silver'd fern branches wave, Pale Theodore's spectre is seen gliding flow, As he calls on the damsel in accents of woe,

Till the bell warns him back to his grave. And while the deep sound echoes over the wood, : :

Now the villagers shrink with dismay; For, as legends declare, where the castle once food, 'Mid the ruins, by moon-light, all cover'd with blood,

Shrieks the maid-in her doublet of grey.

A COURT AUDIENCE.

ANONYMOUS.

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LD South, a witty churchman reckon'd,
But much too serious for a court,
Who at all preaching made a sport,
He soon perceiv'd his audience nod,
Deaf to the zealous man of God!
The doctor stopp’d; began to call,
“ Pray’wake the Earl of Lauderdale.

My Lord! why, 'tis a monstrous thing!
“ You snore so loud-you'll ’wake the king."

THE WINTER'S DAY.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

THEN raging storms deform the air,

,

And the wide landscape, bright and fair,

No deepen'd colours blend.
When biting frost rides on the wind,

Bleak from the north and east,
And wealth is at its ease reclin'd,

Prepar'd to laugh and feast :

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