Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 110

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

1 'Twas at the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet.

2 Her face was like an April-morn, Clad in a wintry cloud; And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held her sable shroud.

3 So shall the fairest face appear, When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown.

4 Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view.

5 But love had, like the canker-worm, Consumed her early prime: The rose grew pale, and left her cheek; She died before her time.

6 'Awake!' she cried, 'thy true love calls, Come from her midnight-grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid, Thy love refused to save.

7 'This is the dumb and dreary hour, When injured ghosts complain; When yawning graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain.

8 'Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath!

And give me back my maiden-vow, And give me back my troth.

9 'Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep?

Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?

10 'How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake?

How could you win my virgin-heart, Yet leave that heart to break?

11 'Why did you say my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale?

And why did I, young witless maid!

Believe the flattering tale?

12 'That face, alas! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled.

13 'The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear.

14 'But, hark! the c.o.c.k has warned me hence; A long and late adieu!

Come, see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you.'

15 The lark sung loud; the morning smiled, With beams of rosy red: Pale William quaked in every limb, And raving left his bed.

16 He hied him to the fatal place Where Margaret's body lay; And stretched him on the green-gra.s.s turf, That wrapped her breathless clay.

17 And thrice he called on Margaret's name.

And thrice he wept full sore; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, And word spake never more!

THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.

The smiling morn, the breathing spring, Invite the tunefu' birds to sing; And, while they warble from the spray, Love melts the universal lay.

Let us, Amanda, timely wise, Like them, improve the hour that flies; And in soft raptures waste the day, Among the birks of Invermay.

For soon the winter of the year, And age, life's winter, will appear; At this thy living bloom will fade, As that will strip the verdant shade.

Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, The feathered songsters are no more; And when they drop and we decay, Adieu the birks of Invermay!

JAMES MERRICK.

Merrick was a clergyman, as well as a writer of verse. He was born in 1720, and became a Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford, where Lord North was one of his pupils. He took orders, but owing to incessant pains in the head, could not perform duty. He died in 1769. His works are a translation of Tryphiodorus, done at twenty, a version of the Psalms, a collection of Hymns, and a few miscellaneous pieces, one good specimen of which we subjoin.

THE CHAMELEON.

Oft has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, With eyes that hardly served at most To guard their master 'gainst a post; Yet round the world the blade has been, To see whatever could be seen.

Returning from his finished tour, Grown ten times perter than before; Whatever word you chance to drop, The travelled fool your mouth will stop: 'Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-- I've seen--and sure I ought to know.'-- So begs you'd pay a due submission, And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travellers of such a cast, As o'er Arabia's wilds they pa.s.sed, And on their way, in friendly chat, Now talked of this, and then of that; Discoursed a while, 'mongst other matter, Of the chameleon's form and nature.

'A stranger animal,' cries one, 'Sure never lived beneath the sun: A lizard's body lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, Its foot with triple claw disjoined; And what a length of tail behind!

How slow its pace! and then its hue-- Who ever saw so fine a blue?'

'Hold there,' the other quick replies, ''Tis green, I saw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warmed it in the sunny ray; Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, And saw it eat the air for food.'

'I've seen it, sir, as well as you, And must again affirm it blue; At leisure I the beast surveyed Extended in the cooling shade.'

''Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I a.s.sure ye.'

'Green!' cries the other in a fury: 'Why, sir, d' ye think I've lost my eyes?'

''Twere no great loss,' the friend replies; 'For if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use.'

So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows: When luckily came by a third; To him the question they referred: And begged he'd tell them, if he knew, Whether the thing was green or blue.

'Sirs,' cries the umpire, 'cease your pother; The creature's neither one nor t' other.

I caught the animal last night, And viewed it o'er by candle-light: I marked it well, 'twas black as jet-- You stare--but sirs, I've got it yet, And can produce it.'--'Pray, sir, do; I'll lay my life the thing is blue.'

'And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen The reptile, you'll p.r.o.nounce him green.'

'Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,'

Replies the man, 'I'll turn him out: And when before your eyes I've set him, If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.'

He said; and full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo!--'twas white.

Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise-- 'My children,' the chameleon cries, (Then first the creature found a tongue,) 'You all are right, and all are wrong: When next you talk of what you view, Think others see as well as you: Nor wonder if you find that none Prefers your eyesight to his own.'

DR JAMES GRAINGER.

This writer possessed some true imagination, although his claim to immortality lies in the narrow compa.s.s of one poem--his 'Ode to Solitude.' Little is known of his personal history. He was born in 1721 --belonging to a gentleman's family in c.u.mberland. He studied medicine, and was for some time a surgeon connected with the army. When the peace came, he established himself in London as a medical pract.i.tioner. In 1755, he published his 'Solitude,' which found many admirers, including Dr Johnson, who p.r.o.nounced its opening lines 'very n.o.ble.' He afterwards indited several other pieces, wrote a translation of Tibullus, and became one of the critical staff of the _Monthly Review_. He was unable, however, through all these labours to secure a competence, and, in 1759, he sought the West Indies. In St Christopher's he commenced practising as a physician, and married the Governor's daughter, who brought him a fortune. He wrote a poem ent.i.tled 'The Sugar-cane.' This was sent over to London in MS., and was read at Sir Joshua Reynold's table to a literary coterie, who, according to Boswell, all burst out into a laugh when, after much blank-verse pomp, the poet began a new paragraph thus--