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To-morrow, in the church to wed,
Impatient, both prepare!
But know, fond maid; and know, false man,
That Lucy will be there!

"Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear,
This bridegroom blithe to meet,
He in his wedding-trim so gay,

I in my winding-sheet."

She spoke, she died, her corse was borne,
The bridegroom blithe to meet,


He in his wedding-trim
She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?
How were these nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,
At once his bosom swell:

The damps of death bedew'd his brow,
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride, ah, bride no more!
The varying crimson fled,
When, stretch'd before her rival's corse,
She saw her husband dead.

Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod,
For ever he remains.

Oft at this grave, the constant hind
And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the sacred green:
But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.



IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stay'd,
And left her debt to Addison unpaid,
Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires!
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires:
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.

Can I forget the dismal night that gave
My soul's best part for ever to the grave!
How silent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Through rows of warriors, and through walks of

What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire;
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;
The duties by the lawn-rob'd prelate paid;
And the last words that dust to dust convey'd!
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.

Oh, gone for ever; take this long adieu;
And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montague.
To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim, at thy sacred shrine;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e'er from me thy lov'd memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,

My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue.
My grief be doubled from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastis'd by thee.

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls where speaking marbles show
What worthies form the hallow'd mould below;
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumph'd; or in arts excell'd;
Chiefs, grac'd with scars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;
Just men, by whom impartial were given;
And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest;
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss convey'd
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.

In what new region, to the just assign'd, What new employments please th' unbodied mind! A winged Virtue, through th' ethereal sky, From world to world unwearied does he fly? Or curious trace the long laborious maze Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze? Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow In hymns of love, not ill essay'd below? Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A task well suited to thy gentle mind? Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend: To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend! When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, And turn from ill, a frail and feeble heart; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before. Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.

That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree
Must still be lov'd and still deplor'd by me;
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,

Or, rous'd by Fancy, meets my waking eyes
If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemish'd statesman seems to strike my sight
If in the stage I seek to sooth my care,

I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove,

His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;
"Twas there of just and good he reason'd strong,
Clear'd some great truth, or rais'd some serious song:
There patient show'd us the wise course to steer,
A candid censor, and a friend severe;
There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high
The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.

Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures grace,

Rear'd by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so lov'd, whene'er thy bower appears,
O'er my
dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears!
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air!

How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, And oft have sallied out to pillage
Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze! The hen-roosts of some peaceful village,
His image thy forsaken bowers restore ;

Or, while their neighbors were asleep,
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more ; Have carried off a lowland sheep.
No more the summer in thy glooms allay'd,

“What boots thy high-born host of beggars, Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. Mac-leans, Mac-kenzies, and Mac-gregors,

From other hills, however Fortune frown'd; With popish cut-throats, perjur'd ruffians, Some refuge in the Muse's art I found:

And Foster's troop of ragamuffins ? Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,

" In vain thy lads around thee bandy, Bereft of him, who taught me how to sing ;

Inflam'd with bagpipe and with brandy. And these sad accents, murmur'd o'er his urn, Doth not bold Sutherland the trusty, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn.

With heart so true, and voice so rusty,
0! must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, (A loyal soul) thy troops affright,
And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds)

While hoarsely he demands the fight?
The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, Dost thou not generous llay dread,
And weep a second in th' unfinish'd song!

The bravest hand, the wisest head ?
These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, Undaunted dost thou hear th' alarms
To thee, O Craggs, th' expiring sage convey'd, Of hoary Athol sheath'd in arms?
Great, but ill-omen'd, monument of fame,

" Douglas, who draws his lineage down Nor he surviv'd to give, nor thou to claim.

From thanes and peers of high renown, Swift after him thy social spirit flies,

Fiery, and young, and uncontrollid, And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.

With knights, and squires, and barons bold,
Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell (His noble household-band) advances,
In future tongues : each other's boast! farewell, And on the milk-white courser prances.
Farewell! whom join’d in fame, in friendship tried, Thee Forfar to the combat dares,
No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. Grown swarthy in Iberian wars;

And Monroe, kindled into rage,
Sourly defies thee to engage;
He'll rout thy foot, though ne'er so many,

And horse to boot—if thou hadst any.

“ But see Argyle, with watchful eyes,

Lodg'd in his deep intrenchments lies,

Couch'd like a lion in thy way,
FROM HORACE. Book II. Ode XV. He waits to spring upon his prey ;

While, like a herd of timorous deer,
Dicam insigne, recens, adhuc
Indictum ore alio: non secus in jugis

Thy army shakes and pants with fear,
Ex somnis stupet Euias

Led by their doughty general's skill,
Hebrum prospiciens, et nive candidam

From frith to frith, from hill to hill.
Thracen, ac pede barbaro

" Is thus thy baughty promise paid
Lostratam Rhodopen.


That to the Chevalier was made, As Mar his round one morning took,

When thou didst oaths and duty barter, (Whoin some call earl, and some call duke), For dukedom, generalship, and garter ? And his new brethren of the blade,

Three moons thy Jemmy shall cornmand, Shivering with fear and frost, survey'd,

With Highland sceptre in his hand, On Perth's bleak hills he chanc'd to spy

Too good for his pretended birth, An aged wizard six feet high,

...Then down shall fall the king of Perth. With bristled hair and visage blighted,

“ 'Tis so decreed: for George shall reign Wall-ey'd, bare-haunch'd, and second-sighted. And traitors be forsworn in vain. The grisly sage in thought profound

Heaven shall for ever on him smile, Beheld the chief with back so round,

And bless him still with an Argyle. Then rolld his eyeballs to and fro

While thou, pursu'd by vengeful foes, O'er his paternal hills of snow,

Condemn'd to barren rocks and snows, And into these tremendous speeches

And hinder'd passing Inverlocky,
Broke forth the prophet without breeches. Shall burn the clan, and curse poor Jocky'

"Into what ills betray'd, by thee,
This ancient kingdom do I see!
Her realms unpeopled and forlorn!
Wae's me! that ever thou wert born!

Proud English loons (our clans o'ercome)
On Scottish pads shall amble home;

FROM A LADY IN ENGLAND TO A GENTLEMAN I see them drest in bonnets blue

AT AVIGNON. (The spoils of thy rebellious crew); I see the target cast away,

To thee, dear rover, and thy vanquish'd friends, And chequer'd plaid become their prey, The health, she wants, thy gentle Chloe sends. The chequer'd plaid to make a gown

Though much you suffer, think I suffer more, For many a lass in London town.

Worse than an exile on my native shore. " In vain thy hungry mountaineers

Companions in your master's flight, you roam, Come forth in all thy warlike gears,

Unenvied by your haughty foes at home;
The shield, the pistol, dirk, and dagger, For ever near the royal outlaw's side,
In which they daily wont to swagger,

You share his fortunes, and his hopes divide.

On glorious schemes and thoughts of empire dwell, Nor fears the hawker in her warbling note
And with imaginary titles swell.

To vend the discontented statesman's thought,
Say, for thou know'st I own his sacred line, Though red with stripes, and recent from the thong
The passive doctrine, and the right divine, Sore smitten for the love of sacred song,
Say, what new succors does the chief prepare ? The tuneful sisters still pursue their trade,
The strength of armies ? or the force of prayer? Like Philomela darkling in the shade.
Does he from Heaven or Earth his hopes derive? Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a fare,
From saints departed, or from priests alive? [stand, And hums in concert o'er his easy chair.
Nor saints nor priests can Brunswick's troops with- Meanwhile, regardless of the royal cause,
And beads drop useless through the zealot's hand; His sword for James no brother sovereign draws.
Heaven to our vows may future kingdoms owe, The pope himself, surrounded with alarms,
But skill and courage win the crowns below. To France his bulls, to Corfu sends his arms,

Ere to thy cause, and thee, my heart inclin'd, And though he hears his darling son's complaint, Or love to party had seduc'd my mind,

Can hardly spare one tutelary saint, In female joys I took a dull delight,

But lists them all to guard his own abodes, Slept all the morn, and punted half the night: And into ready money coins his gods. But now, with fears and public cares possest, The dauntless Swede, pursued by vengeful foes, The church, the church, for ever breaks my rest. Scarce keeps his own hereditary snows; The postboy on my pillow I explore,

Nor must the friendly roof of kind Lorrain And sift the news of every foreign shore,

With feasts regale our garter'd youth again. Studious to find new friends, and new allies; Safe, Bar-le-Duc, within thy silent grove What armies march from Sweden in disguise ; The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rore, How Spain prepares her banners to unfold, The knight, who aims unerring from afar, And Rome deals out her blessings, and her gold: Th' adventurous knight, now quits the sylvan war: Then o'er the map my finger, taught to stray, Thy brinded boars may slumber undismay'd, Cross many a region marks the winding way'; Or grunt secure beneath the chestnut shade. From sea to sea, from realm to realın I rove, Inconstant Orleans (still we mourn the day And grow a mere geographer by love :

That trusted Orleans with imperial sway) But still Avignon, and the pleasing coast

Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends, That holds thee banish'd, claims my care the most : Far from the call of his desponding friends. Oft on the well-known spot I fix my eyes, Such are the terms, to gain Britannia's grace! And span the distance that between us lies. And such the terrors of the Brunswick race!

Let not our James, though foil'd in arms, despair, Was it for this the Sun's whole lustre fail'd, Whilst on his side he reckons half the fair : And sudden midnight o'er the Moon prevail'd! In Britain's lovely isle a shining throng

For this did Heaven display to mortal eyes War in his cause, a thousand beauties strong. Aërial knights and combats in the skies! Th' unthinking victors vainly boast their powers ; Was it for this Northumbrian streams look'd red! Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours.

And Thames driv'n backward show'd his secret bed We reason with such fluency and fire,

False auguries! th' insulting victor's scorn! The beaux we bassle, and the learned tire,

Ev'n our own prodigies against us turn! Against her prelates plead the church's cause, O portents construed on our side in vain! And from our judges vindicate the laws.

Let never Tory trust eclipse again! Then mourn not, hapless prince, thy kingdoms lost; Run clear, ye fountains! be at peace, ye skies! A crown, though late, thy sacred brows may boast; And, Thames, henceforth to thy green borders rise : Heaven seems through us thy empire to decree; To Rome then must the royal wanderer go, Those who win hearts, have given their hearts to thee. And fall a suppliant at the papal toe?

Hast thou not heard that when, profusely gay, His life in sloth inglorious must he wear, Our well-drest rivals grac'd their sovereign's day, One half in luxury, and one in prayer ? We stubborn damsels met the public view His mind perhaps at length debauch'd with ease, In lothesome wormwood, and repenting rue ? The proffer'd purple and the hat may please. What Whig but trembled, when our spotless band Shall he, whose ancient patriarchal race In virgin roses whiten'd half the land !

To mighty Nimrod in one line we trace, Who can forget what fears the foe possest, In solemn conclave sit, devoid of thought, When oaken-boughs mark'd every loyal breast! And poll for points of faith his trusty vote! Less scard than Medway's stream the Norman stood, Be summond to his stall in time of need, When cross the plain he spied a marching wood, And with his casting suffrage fix a creed ! Till, near at hand, a gleam of swords belray'd Shall he in robes on stated days appear, The youth of Kent beneath its wandering shade ? And English heretics curse once a year!

Those who the succors of the fair despise, Garnet and Faux shall he with prayers invoke, May find that we have nails as well as eyes. And beg that Smithfield piles once more may smoke! Thy female bards, O prince by fortune crost, Forbid it, Heaven! my soul, to fury wrought, At least more courage than thy men can boast : Turns almost Hanoverian at the thought. Our sex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet, From James and Rome I feel my heart decline, And purchas'd fame in many a well-fought street. And fear, O Brunswick, 'twill be wholly thine ; From Drury-Lane, the region of renown,

Yet still his share thy rival will contest, The land of love, the Paphos of the town, And still the double claim divides my breast. Fair patriots sallying oft have put to flight The fate of James with pitying eyes I view, With all their poles the guardians of the night, And wish my homage were not Brunswick's due : And bore, with screams of triumph, to their side To James my passion and my weakness guide, The leader's staff in all its painted pride. But reason sways me to the victor's side.

Where Britain's foremost names are found,
In peace belov’d, in war renown'd,
Who made the hostile nations moan,
Or brought a blessing on their own:

Once more a son of Spencer waits. A name familiar to thy gates ; Sprung from the chief whose prowess gain'd The Garter while thy founder reign'd, He offer'd here his dinted shield, The dread of Gauls in Cressi's field, Which, in thy high-arch'd temple rais'd, For four long centuries hath blaz’d.

These seats our sires, a hardy kind, To the fierce sons of war confinid, The flower of chivalry, who drew With sinew'd arm the stubborn yew: Or with heav'd pole-ax clear'd the field ; Or who, in joust and tourneys skillid, Before their ladies' eyes renown'd, Threw horse and horseman to the ground.

Though grievd I speak it, let the truth appear!
You know my language, and my heart, sincere.
In rain did falsehood his fair fame disgrace:
What force had falsehood when he show'd his face !
In vain to war our boastful clans were led
Heaps driv'n on heaps, in the dire shock they fled :
France shuns his wrath, nor raises to our shame
A second Dunkirk in another name:
In Britain's funds their wealth all Europe throws,
And up the Thames the world's abundance flows:
Spite of feign'd fears and artificial cries,
The pious town sees fifty churches rise :
C'he hero triumphs as his worth is known,
And sits more firmly on his shaken throne.

To my sad thought no beam of hope appears
Through the long prospect of succeeding years.
The son, aspiring to his father's fame,
Shows all his sire: another and the same.
He, blest in lovely Carolina's arms,
To future ages propagates her charms :
With pain and joy at strise, I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face ;
Half sickening at the sight, too well I spy
The father's spirit through the mother's eye:
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,
And strive to hate their innocence in vain.

O princess ! happy by thy foes confest!
Blest in thy husband ! in thy children blest!
As they from thee, from them new beauties born,
While Europe lasts, shall Europe's thrones adorn.
Transplanted to each court, in times to come,
Thy smile celestial and unfading bloom,
Great Austria's sons with softer lines shall grace,
And smooth the frowns of Bourbon's haughty race.
The fair descendants of thy sacred bed,
Wide-branching o'er the western world, shall spread
Like the fam'd Banian tree, whose pliant shoot
'To earthward bending of itself takes root,
Till, like their mother plant, ten thousand stand
In verdant arches on the fertile land;
Beneath her shade the tawny Indians rove,
Or huni, at large, through the wide echoing grove.

O thou, to whom these mournful lines I send,
My promis'd husband, and my dearest friend ;
Since Heaven appoints this favor'd race to reign,
And blood has drench'd the Scottish fields in vain ;)
Must I be wretched, and thy flight partake ?
Or wilt not thou, for thy lov'd Chloe's sake,
Tir'd out at length, submit to fate's decree?
If not to Brunswick, o return to me!
Prostrate before the victor's mercy bend :

spares whole thousands, may to thee extend.
Should blinded friends thy doubtful conduct blame,
Great Brunswick's virtue shall secure thy fame :
Say these invite thee to approach his throne,
And own the monarch Heaven vouchsafes to own:
The world, convinc'd, thy reasons will approve;
Say this to them; but swear to me 'twas love.

In after-times, as courts refin'd, Our patriots in the list were join'd. Not only Warwick stain'd with blood, Or Marlborough near the Danube's flood, Have in their crimson crosses glow'd; But, on just lawgivers bestow'd, These emblems Cecil did invest, And gleam'd on wise Godolphin's breast

So Greece, ere arts began to rise, Fix'd huge Orion in the skies, And stern Alcides, fam'd in wars, Bespangled with a thousand stars ; Till letter'd Athens round the Pole Made gentler constellations roll; In the blue heavens the lyre she strung, And near the Maid the Balance* hung.

Then, Spencer, mount amid the band, Where knights and kings promiscuous stand. What though the hero's flame repress'd Burns calmly in thy generous breast ! Yet who more dauntless to oppose In doubtful days our home-bred foes ! Who rais'd his country's wealth so high, Or view'd with less desiring eye!

The sage, who, large of soul, surveys The globe and all its empires weighs, Watchful the various climes to guide, Which seas, and tongues, and faiths, divide, A nobler name in Windsor's shrine Shall leave, if right the Muse divine, Than sprung of old, abhorr'd and vain, From ravag'd realms and myriads slain.



Why praise we, prodigal of fame, The rage that sets the world on flame? My guiltless Muse his brow shall bind Whose godlike bounty spares mankind. For those, whom bloody garlands crown, The brass may breathe, the marble frown, To him through every rescued land, Ten thousand living trophies stand.


Thou Dome, where Edward first enroll'd His red-cross knights and barons bold, Whose vacant seats, by Virtue bought, Ambitious emperors have sought:

*Narnes of constellations.


JANES HAMMOND, a popular elegiac poet, was the Elegies” were published soon after his death by second son of Anthony Hammond, Esq. of Somer- Lord Chesterfield, and have been several times sham place, in Huntingdonshire. He was born in reprinted. It will seem extraordinary that the no1710, and was educated in Westminster school, ble editor has only once mentioned the name of where at an early age he obtained the friendship of Tibullus, and has asserted that Hammond, sincere several persons of distinction, among whom were in his love, as in his friendship, spoke only the Lords Cobbam, Chesterfield, and Lyttleton. He genuine sentiments of his heart, when there are so was appointed equerry to Frederic, Prince of Wales, many obvious imitations of the Roman poet, even and upon his interest was brought into parliament so far as the adoption of his names of Neera, Cyn. in 1741, for Truro in Cornwall. This was nearly thia, and Delia. It must, however, be acknow.he last stage of his life, for he died in June 1742, ledged, that he copies with the hand of a master, at the seat of Lord Cobham, at Stowe. An unfor- and that his imitations are generally managed with tunate passion for a young lady, Miss Dashwood, a grace that almost conceals their character. Still who was cold to his addresses, is thought to have as they are, in fact, poems of this class, however disordered his mind, and perhaps contributed to his skilfully transposed, we shall content ourselves with premature death.

transcribing one which introduces the name of his Hammond was a man of an amiable character, principal patron with peculiarly happy effect. and was much regretted by his friends. His “Love

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast !

Or lull’d to slumber by the beating rain,

Secure and happy, sink at last to rest!
He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, Or, if the Sun in Naming Leo ride,

content with each other, they are retired into the By shady rivers indolently stray, country.

And with my Delia, walking side by side,

Hear how they murmur, as they glide away! Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, What joy to wind along the cool retreat, And view their fields, with waving plenty crown'd, To stop, and gaze on Delia as I go! Whom neighboring foes in constant terror hold, To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound. And teach my lovely scholar all I know! While calmly poor I trifle life away,

Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dieam Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,

In silent happiness I rest unknown;
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,

Content with what I am, not what I seem,
But, cheaply blest, I'll scorn each vain desire. I live for Delia and myself alone.
With timely care I'll sow my little field,

Ah, foolish man, who thus of her possest,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand, Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
Nor blusb to spread the hay, the hook to wield, And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Or range my sheaves along the sunny land. Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind!
If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,

With her I scorn the idle breath of praise, I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,

Nor trust to happiness that's not our own; Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, The smile of fortune might suspicion raise, And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. But here I know that I am lov'd alone.

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