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COLIN AND LUCY.

A Ballad.

TICKELL.

OF Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace,
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reffect so sweet a face;

Till luckless love and pining care
Impair'd her rosy hue,

Her coral lips, and damask cheeks,
And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh! have you seen a lily pale
When beating rains descend?
So droop'd the slow-consuming maid,
Her life now near its end.

By Lucy warn'd, of flatt'ring swains
Take heed, ye easy fair!
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjur'd swains, beware!

Three times, all in the dead of night, A bell was heard to ring,

And, shrieking at her window thrice, The raven flapp'd his wing.

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound,

And thus in dying words bespoke
The virgins weeping round :

"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.

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By a false heart and broken vows,
In early youth I die ;-

Was I to blame because his bride
Was thrice as rich as I?

"Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone:

Nor thou, fond maid! receive his kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.

"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 so gay,

She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?
How were the 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 his grave the constant hind
And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,
They deck the sacred green.

But, swain forlorn! whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

ELEGY ON ADDISON.

TICKELL.

Ir, 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, O 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
kings!

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 laws were giv'n,
And saints who taught, and led the way to heav'n!
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 Heav'n's decrees, where wond'ring 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 whisp❜rings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trode before,
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form, which, so the Heav'ns 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 bus'ness 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;

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