Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 127

4 'No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, Thy once beloved bride to see; But be she alive, or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl,'s the same to thee.

5 'Not so the usage I received When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appal.

6 'I rose up with the cheerful morn, No lark so blithe, no flower more gay; And, like the bird that haunts the thorn, So merrily sung the livelong day.

7 'If that my beauty is but small, Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized?

8 'And when you first to me made suit, How fair I was, you oft would say!

And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, Then left the blossom to decay.

9 'Yes! now neglected and despised, The rose is pale, the lily's dead; But he that once their charms so prized, Is sure the cause those charms are fled.

10 'For know, when sickening grief doth prey, And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay: What floweret can endure the storm?

11 'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, Where every lady's pa.s.sing rare, That eastern flowers, that shame the sun, Are not so glowing, not so fair.

12 'Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gauds are by?

13 ''Mong rural beauties I was one; Among the fields wild-flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, And thought my pa.s.sing beauty rare.

14 'But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, It is not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

15 'Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, The injured surely may repine, Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine?

16 'Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And, oh! then leave them to decay?

Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave me to mourn the livelong day?

17 'The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go: Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have woe.

18 'The simple nymphs! they little know How far more happy's their estate; To smile for joy, than sigh for woe; To be content, than to be great.

19 'How far less blessed am I than them, Daily to pine and waste with care!

Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air.

20 'Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns, or pratings rude.

21 'Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, The village death-bell smote my ear; They winked aside, and seemed to say, "Countess, prepare--thy end is near."

22 'And now, while happy peasants sleep, Here I sit lonely and forlorn; No one to soothe me as I weep, Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

23 'My spirits flag, my hopes decay; Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; And many a body seems to say, "Countess, prepare--thy end is near."'

24 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved In c.u.mnor Hall, so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear.

25 And ere the dawn of day appeared, In c.u.mnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear.

26 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped his wing Around the towers of c.u.mnor Hall.

27 The mastiff howled at village door, The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour, for never more That hapless Countess e'er was seen.

28 And in that manor, now no more Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted c.u.mnor Hall.

29 The village maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; Nor never lead the merry dance Among the groves of c.u.mnor Hall.

30 Full many a traveller has sighed, And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onwards they've espied The haunted towers of c.u.mnor Hall.

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

1 But are ye sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.

For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a', There's nae luck about the house, When our gudeman's awa.

2 Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin's at the door?

Rax down my cloak--I'll to the quay, And see him come ash.o.r.e.

3 Rise up and mak a clean fireside, Put on the mickle pat; Gie little Kate her cotton goun, And Jock his Sunday's coat.

4 And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their stocking white as snaw; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-- He likes to see them braw.

5 There are twa hens into the crib, Hae fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare.

6 My Turkey slippers I'll put on, My stocking pearl blue-- It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true.

7 Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue; His breath's like caller air; His very fit has music in't, As he comes up the stair.

8 And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought: In troth I'm like to greet.

LORD NUGENT.

Robert Craggs, afterwards created Lord Nugent, was an Irishman, a younger son of Michael Nugent, by the daughter of Robert, Lord Trimlestown, and born in 1709. He was in 1741 elected M.P. for St Mawes, in Cornwall, and became in 1747 comptroller to the Prince of Wales' household. He after- wards made peace with the Court, and received various promotions and marks of favour besides the peerage. In 1739, he published anonymously a volume of poems possessing considerable merit. He was converted from Popery, and wrote some vigorous verses on the occasion. Unfortunately, however, he relapsed, and again celebrated the event in a very weak poem, ent.i.tled 'Faith.' He died in 1788. Although a man of decided talent, as his 'Ode to Mankind' proves, Nugent does not stand very high either in the catalogue of Irish patriots or of 'royal and n.o.ble authors.'

ODE TO MANKIND.

1 Is there, or do the schoolmen dream?

Is there on earth a power supreme, The delegate of Heaven, To whom an uncontrolled command, In every realm o'er sea and land, By special grace is given?

2 Then say, what signs this G.o.d proclaim?

Dwells he amidst the diamond's flame, A throne his hallowed shrine?