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The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal,
Small is the new-born plant scarce seen
And wouldst thou seek the low abode
In Finland there is a Castle which is called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unfounded depth, the water black and the fish therein very distateful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, which foreshew either the death of the Gover
The coffin  as I past across the lane
Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye,
(Time, Morning. Scene, the Shore.)
(Time Night. Scene the woods.)
It was a little island where he dwelt,
Remove far from me vanity and lies; give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me.
Here Stranger rest thee! from the neighbouring towers
Art thou a Patriot Traveller? on this field
Enter this cavern Stranger! the ascent
For thirty years secluded from mankind,
This mound in some remote and dateless day
This is the place where William's kingly power
Stranger! awhile upon this mossy bank
STRANGER! the MAN OF NATURE lies not here:
Jaspar was poor, and want and vice
No eye beheld when William plunged
The story of the following ballad was related to me, when a school boy, as a fact which had really happened in the North of England. I have adopted the metre of Mr. Lewis's Alonzo and Imogene--a poem deservedly popular.
Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile;
Poussin! most pleasantly thy pictur'd scenes
written on the first of January, 1794
(Written on the FIRST of DECEMBER, 1793.)
Written on SUNDAY MORNING.
And they have drown'd thee then at last! poor Phillis!
Divers Princes and Noblemen being assembled in a beautiful and fair Palace, which was situate upon the river Rhine, they beheld a boat or small barge make toward the shore, drawn by a Swan in a silver chain, the one end fastened about her neck, the o
Hold your mad hands! for ever on your plain
Go Valentine and tell that lovely maid
Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair,
Think Valentine, as speeding on thy way
Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run
Not to thee Bedford mournful is the tale
'Tis night; the mercenary tyrants sleep
What tho' no sculptur'd monument proclaim
Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky
Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword
Hard by the road, where on that little mound
High in the air expos'd the Slave is hung
to a brook near the village of Corston.
Mild arch of promise! on the evening sky
With many a weary step, at length I gain
How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns
With wayworn feet a Pilgrim woe-begone
And wherefore do the Poor complain?
The circumstance related in the following Ballad happened about forty years ago in a village adjacent to Bristol. A person who was present at the funeral, told me the story and the particulars of the interment, as I have versified them.
What! and not one to heave the pious sigh!
Fly, son of Banquo! Fleance, fly!
Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the felde Floridus, that is to seyne, the feld florisched. For als moche as a fayre Mayden was blamed with wrong and sclaundred, that sche hadde don fornicacioun, for whiche cause sche was deme
In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol, discovered a Sailor in the neighbourhood of that City, groaning and praying in a hovel. The circumstance that occasioned his agony of mind is detailed in the annexed Ballad, without the slightest
The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am indebted for some of the stanzas.
Glad as the weary traveller tempest-tost
Hark--how the church-bells thundering harmony
Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her couch
She spake, and lo! celestial radiance beam'd
The Maiden, musing on the Warrior's words,
The lilly cheek, the "purple light of love,"
And I was once like this! that glowing cheek
"Lo I, the man who erst the Muse did ask
O thou who from the mountain's height