Cries Ardolph, since I see this hour?
Yes-Birtha shall be thine.'
A little transient gleam of red
Shot faintly o'er her face,
And ev'ry trembling feature spread
With sweet disorder'd grace.
The tender father kindly smil'd
With fulness of content;
And fondly ey'd his darling child,
Who, bashful, blush'd consent.
O then to paint the vast delight

That fill'd Sir Eldred's heart,
To tell the transports of the knight,,
Would mock the Muse's art.
But ev'ry kind and gracious soul,
Where gentle passions dwell,
Will better far conceive the whole,
Than any muse can tell.

The more the knight his Birtha knew,
The more he priz'd the maid;
Some worth each day produc'd to view,
Some grace each hour betray'd.
The virgin too was fond to charm
The dear accomplish'd youth;
His single breast she strove to warm,
And crown'd with love, his truth.
Unlike the dames of modern days,
Who general homage claim;
Who court the universal gaze,
And pant for public fame.

Then beauty but on merit smil'd,
Nor were her chaste smiles sold;
No venal father gave his child,

For grandeur, or for gold.
The ardour of young Eldred's flame
But ill could brook delay,
And oft he press'd the maid to name
A speedy nuptial day.

The fond impatience of his breast
'I'was all in vain to hide,
But she his eager suit represt
With modest maiden pride.

When oft Sir Eldred press'd the day
Which was to crown his truth,

The thoughtful sire would sigh and say,
"O happy state of youth!

It little recks the woes which wait

To scare its dreams of joy ;
Nor thinks to-morrow's alter'd fate
May all those dreams destroy.

And though the flatterer Hope deceives,
And painted prospects shows;
Yet man, still cheated, still believes,
Till death the bright scene close,
So look'd my bride, so sweetly mild,
On me her beauty's slave ;

But whilst she look 'd, and whilst she smil'd
She sunk into the grave.
Yet, O forgive an old man's care,
Forgive a father's zeal;
Who fondly loves must greatly fear,
Who fears must greatly feel.
Once more in soft and sacred bands
Shall Love and Hymen meet;
To-morrow shall unite your hands,
And-be your bliss complete!'
The rising sun inflam'd the sky,
The golden orient blush'd;

But Birtha's cheeks a sweeter dye,

A brighter crimson flush'd.
The priest in milk-white vestments clad,
Perform'd the mystic rite;

Love lit the hallow'd torch that led
To Hymen's chaste delight.
How feeble language were to speak
Th' immeasurable joy,
That fir'd Sir Eldred's ardent cheek,
And triumph'd in his eye!
Sir Ardolph's pleasure stood confest,
A pleasure all his own;
The guarded pleasure of a breast
Which many a grief had known.
'Twas such a sober sense of joy
As angels well might keep;
A joy chastis'd by piety,

A joy prepar'd to weep. To recollect her scatter'd thought, And shun the noon-tide hour, The lovely bride in secret sought The coolness of her bower. Long she remain'd—th' enamour'd knight, Impatient at her stay;

And all unfit to taste delight

When Birtha was away;
Betakes him to the secret bower;
His footsteps softly move;
Impell'd by ev'ry tender power,
He steals upon his love.

O, horror! horror! blasting sight!
He sees his Birtha's charms,
Reclin'd with melting, fond delight,
Within a stranger's arms.
Wild frenzy fires his frantic hand,
Distracted at the sight,

He flies to where the lovers stand;
And stabs the stranger knight.
'Die, traitor, die! thy guilty flames
Demand th' avenging steel!'-
It is my brother,' she exclaims !
"Tis Edwy-Oh farewell !'
An aged peasant, Edwy's guide,
The good old Ardolph sought;
He told him that his bosom's pride,
His Edwy, he had brought.

O how the father's feelings melt!
How faint and how revive!
Just so the Hebrew patriarch felt,
To find his son alive.

Let me behold my darling's face,
And bless him ere I die !'

Then with a swift and vigorous pace,
He to the bower did hie:

O sad reverse!-Sunk on the ground
His slaughter'd son he view'd;
And dying Birtha, close he found,

In brother's blood imbru'd.

Cold, speechless, senseless, Eldred near,
Gaz'd on the deed he'd done;
Like the blank statue of Despair,

Or Madness grav'd in stone.
The father saw-so Jephthah stood,
So turn'd his wo-fraught eye,
When the dear, destin'd child he view'd
His zeal had doom'd to die.
He look'd the wo he could not speak,
And on the pale corse prest

His wan discolour'd, dying cheek,

And silent, sunk to rest.
Then Birtha faintly rais'd her eye,
Which long had ceas'd to stream,
On Eldred fix'd, with many a sigh,
Its dim departing beam.

The cold, cold dews of hastening death,
Upon her pale face stand;

And quick and short her failing breath,
And tremulous her hand.

The cold, cold dews of hastening death,
The dim departing eye,

The quiv'ring hand, the short quick breath,
He view'd and did not die.

He saw her spirit mount in air,

Its kindred skies to seek!

His heart its anguish could not bear,
And yet it would not break.
The mournful muse forbears to tell
How wretched Eldred died;

She draws the Grecian painter's veil,
The vast distress to hide.

dest brow

To view Sabrina's silver wave below,
Liv'd young lanthe, fair as beauty's queen;
She reign'd unrivall'd in the sylvan scene;
Hers every charm of symmetry and grace,
Which aids the triumph of the fairest face;
With all that softer elegance of mind,
By genius heighten'd, and by taste refin'd.
Yet early was she doom'd the child of care,
For hapless love subdu'd th' ill-fated fair,
Ah! what avails each captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the fairest face?
Or what each beauty of the heav'n-born
mind,

The soul superior, or the taste refin'd?
Beauty but serves destruction to insure,
And sense to feel the pang it cannot cure.
Each neighb'ring youth aspir'd to gain
her hand,

And many a suitor came from many a land: But all in vain each neighb'ring youth aspir'd,

Who has not heard how Polydore could throw

Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe? How leave the swiftest at the race behind, How mount the courser, and outstrip the wind?

With melting sweetness, or with magic fire, Breathe the soft flute, or sweep the wellstrung lyre?

From that fam'd lyre no vulgar music sprung,

The Graces tun'd it, and Apollo strung.

Apollo too was once a shepherd swain, And fed the flock, and grac'd the rustic plain :

He taught what charms to rural life belong, The social sweetness, and the sylvan song; He taught fair Wisdom in her grove to

Woo,

Her joys how precious, and her wants how few!

The savage herds in mute attention stood, And ravish'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood; The sacred sisters, stooping from their sphere,

grace.

Young Polydore, the pride of rural swains,

eyes,

And Jove, in envy, call'd him to the skies.

Young Polydore was rich in large domains,

In smiling pastures, and in flow'ry plains ;
With these, he boasted each exterior charm,
To win the prudent, and the cold to warm;
The fairest semblance of desert he bore,
And each fictitious mark of goodness wore ;
Could act the tenderness he never felt,
In sorrow soften, and in anguish melt.
The sigh elaborate, the fraudful tear,
The joy dissembled, and the well feign'd
fear,

All these were his; and his each treach'rous

art,

That steals the guileless and unpractis'd heart.

Too soon he heard of fair Ianthe's fame, 'Twas each enamour'd shepherd's fav'rite theme;

Return'd the rising, and the setting sun, The shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done.

They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her air!

And even inferior beauties own'd her fair. Such sweet perfection all his wonder moved :

He saw, admired, nay, fancied that he loved :

But Polydore no gen'rous passion knew,
Lost to all truth in feigning to be true.
No lasting tenderness could warm a heart,
Too vain to feel, too selfish to impart.

Cold as the snows of Rhodope descend, And with the chilling wave of Hebrus blend; So cold the breast where Vanity presides, And the whole subject soul absorbs and guides.

Too well he knew to make his conquest sure,

Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure.
So oft he told the well-imagin'd tale,
So oft he swore-how should he not pre-
vail?

The well-imagin'd tale the nymph believ'd;
Too unsuspecting not to be deceiv'd:
She lov'd the youth, she thought herself be-
lov'd,

Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid approv'd.

The conquest once achiev'd, the brightest fair,

When conquer'd, was no longer worth his

care:

When to the world her passion he could prove,

Vain of his pow'r, he jested at her love.
The perjur'd youth, from sad Ianthe far
To win fresh triumphs, wages cruel war.
With other nymphs behold the wand'rer

rove,

And tell the story of Ianthe's love;

He mocks her easy faith, insults her wo,
Nor pities tears himself had taught to flow.
To sad Ianthe soon the tale was borne,
How Polydore to treach'ry added scorn.
And now her eyes' soft radiance 'gan to
fail,

And now the crimson of her cheek grew pale;

The lily there in faded beauty shows
Its sickly empire o'er the vanquish'd rose.
Dovouring Sorrow marks her for his prey,
And, slow and certain, mines his silent way.
Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin'd,
Increasing strength sustain'd her firmer
mind.

'O had my heart been hard as his,' she cried,

An hapless victim thus I had not died : If there be gods, and gods there surely are, Insulted virtue doubtless is their care. Then hasten, righteous Powers; my tedious fate,

Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date : Quick let your power transform this failing frame,

Let me be any thing but what I am!
And since the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel,
Proceed, alas! from having lov'd too well:
Grant me some form where love can have
no part,

No human weakness reach my guarded heart;

Where no soft touch of passion can be felt,
No fond affection this weak bosom melt.
If Pity has not left your blest abodes,
Change me to flinty adamant, ye gods!
To hardest rock, or monumental stone,
So may I know no more the pangs I've
known;

So shall I thus no farther torments prove,
Nor taunting rivals say she died for love:
For sure, if aught can aggravate our wo,
'Tis the feign'd pity of a prosp'rous foe.'
Thus pray'd the nymph, and strait the
Pow'rs addrest,

Accord the weeping suppliant's sad request.
Then strange to tell! if rural folks say

true,

Of lost lanthe's form, Ianthe's face. He fix'd his streaming eyes upon the stone, *And take sweet maid,' he cried, 'my parting groan;

Since we are doom'd thus terribly to part,
No other nymph shall ever share my heart;
Thus only I'm absolv'd'-he rashly cried,
Then plung'd a deadly poniard in his side!
Fainting, the steel he grasp'd, and as he fell
The weapon pierc'd the rock he lov'd so
well;

The guiltless steel assail'd the living part,
And stabb'd the vital, vulnerable heart.
And though the rocky mass was pale before,
Behold it ting'd with ruddy streams of gore!
The life-blood issuing from the wounded
stone,

Blends with the crimson current of his own; From Polydore's fresh wound it flow'd in part,

But chief emitted from Ianthe's heart.
And though revolving ages since have past,
The meeting torrents undiminish'd last;
Still gushes out the sanguine stream amain,
The standing wonder of the stranger swain.
Now once a year, so rustic records tell,
When o'er the heath resounds the midnight
bell;

On eve of midsummer, that foe to sleep, What time young maids their annual vigils keep,

stant are;

When ghosts in clanking chains the churchyard walk,

And to the wond'ring ear of fancy talk: When the scar'd maid steals trembling thro' the grove,

To kiss the grave of him who died for love; When, with long watchings, Care at length opprest,

Steals broken pauses of uncertain rest;
Nay, Grief short snatches of repose can
take,

And nothing but Despair is quite awake;
Then, at that hour, so still, so full of fear,
When all things horrible to thought appear,
Is perjur'd Polydore observ'd to rove
A ghastly spectre through the gloomy grove;
Then to the rock, the Bleeding-rock repair,
Where, sadly sighing it dissolves to air.

Still when the hours of solemn rites return, The village train in sad procession mourn; Pluck ev'ry weed which might the spot disgrace,

And plant the fairest field-flow'rs in their place.

Around no noxicus plant, or flow'ret grows, But the first daffodil, and earliest rose; The snow-drop spreads its whitest bosom here,

And golden cowslips grace the vernal year: Here the pale primrose takes a fairer hue, And ev'ry violet boasts a brighter blue. Here builds the wood-lark, here the faithful dove

Laments his lost, or woos his living love.
Secure from harm is ev'ry hallow'd nest,
The spot is sacred where true lovers rest.
To guard the rock from each malignant
sprite,

A troop of guardian spirits watch by night;
Aloft in air each takes his little stand,
The neighb'ring hill is hence call'd Fairy
Land.*

clare

•Midsummer-men, consulted as oracular by village

maids.

I. DRAGON! Since lyrics are the mode,

To thee I dedicate my ode,

And reason good I plead :
Are those who cannot write, to blame
To draw their hopes of future fame,

From those who cannot read?

II. O could I, like that nameless wight,*

* See the admirable epistle to sir William Chambers.

Find the choice minute when to write,
The mollia tempora fandi !
Like his, my muse should learn to whistle
A true heroical epistle,

In strains which never can die.
III. Father of lyrics, tuneful Horace !
Can thy great shade do nothing for us
To mend the British lyre?
Our luckless bards have broke the strings,