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High o'er the sinner's humble head
At length the solemn silence broke;
And, from a cloud of swarthy red,
The awful voice of thunder spoke.-

Oppressor of creation fair!
Apostate spirit's harden'd tool!
Scorner of God! scourge of the poor!
The measure of thy cup is full.

"Be chas'd for ever thro' the wood,
For ever roam th' affrighted wild,
And let thy fate instruct the proud,
God's meanest creature is his child."

'Twas hush'd-one flash of sombre glare With yellow ting'd the forests brown; Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, And horror chill'd each nerve and bone

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill;
A rising wind began to sing;
And louder, louder, louder still,

Brought storm and tempest on its wing.

Earth heard the call-her entrails rend From yawning rifts with many a yell, Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend, The misbegotten dogs of hell.

What ghastly huntsman next arose,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell;
His eye like midnight lightning glows,
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.

The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,
With many a shriek of helpless woe;
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn,
And hark away! and holla ho!

With wild despair's reverted eye,

Close, close behind he marks the throng; With bloody fangs and eager cry, In frantic fear he scours along.

Still, still shall last the dreadful chace,
Till time itself shall have an end;
By day they scour earth's cavern'd space,
At midnight's watching hour ascend.

This is the horn, and hound, and horse,
That oft the lated peasant hears;
Appall'd, he signs the frequent cross,
When the wild din invades his ears.

The wakeful priest oft drops a tear
For human pride, for human woe,
When at his midnight mass he hears
The infernal cry of holla ho!!

EPISTLE

FROM SIR WILLIAM YOUNG TO HIS LADY, On having lost his Eye.

How vain are all the joys of man,

By nature born to certain sorrow, Since none, not ev'n the wisest, can Insure the pleasures of to-morrow!

These eyes, so late my envy'd boast,
By Celia priz'd above all other,
See one, alas! for ever lost,

Its fellow weeping for its brother.

Yet still I'm blest while one remains
For viewing lovely Celia's beauty,
Her looks still ease acutest pains,

With tenderest love, and cheerful duty.

Had I for her in battle strove,

The fatal blow I'd borne with pleasure, And still, to prove my constant love, With joy I'd lose my single treasure.

Ev'n then, the beauties of her mind
Would amply bless her faithful lover,
He must be deaf as well as blind

Who can't my Celia's charms discover.

E'en then I'd find one solid bliss,
Which heaven to me alone dispenses,
Though deaf and blind, her balmy kiss
Would ravish the remaining senses.

LINES

FROM DR. CORBET TO HIS SON VINCENT CORBET.

WHAT I shall leave thee none can tell,

But all shall say I wish thee well.

I wish thee (Vin.) before all wealth,
Both bodily and ghostly health;

Nor too much wealth or wit come to thee,
So much of either may undo thee.
I wish thee learning, not for show,
Enough for to instruct and know;
Not such as gentlemen require
To prate at table, or at fire.

I wish thee all thy mother's graces,
Thy father's fortunes, and his places;
I wish thee friends, and one at court,
Not to build on, but support;
To keep thee not from doing many
Oppressions, but from suffering any.
I wish thee peace in all thy ways,
Nor lazy nor contentious days;
And, when thy soul and body part,
As innocent as now thou art.

THE WILLOW.

WHERE once thou, sweet Willow! embrac'd the clear

tide,

And fresh flowing streams made thy tresses so pure, How oft with my fair have I sat by your side,

And wish'd that our joys might for ever endure!

How gay o'er our heads the green alder's would sigh, And whispering breezes consent to our bliss!

As they stole through the reeds, I would press her more

nigh,

Lest zephyr, too bold, should contend for a kiss.

When I lean'd on her bosom, and pip'd to her praise, While thou, lovely Willow! look'd down on the stream, Could I blame the young shepherds that envy'd my lays, If a nymph so divine would attend to my theme?

But ah! gentle Willow, how sad is the change!

She has broke all her vows, and forsaken her swain: I fly to thy shade, for wherever I range

Shews despair to my anguish, and adds to my pain.

Then trust not, sweet Willow! these smile-springing skies; The stream that reflects thee so fair and so kind, When torrents descend, like her frowns they will rise, The stains of the stream are like those of her mind.

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