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Rose, go deck his hallow'd grave,

Lily, o'er the green turf twine ; Honour meet that turf should have,

Beauty's bed, and virtue's shrine.

"Primrose pale, and violet blue,

Jas’mine sweet, and eglantine, Nightly here thy'sweets I strew,

Proud to deck my true-love's shrine; Like you, my Damon bloom'd a day,

He did die and so must youBut such charms can you display,

Half so virtuous, half so true?

"No, sweet flowrets, no such charms,

No such virtues can you boast; Yet he's torn from my fond arms,

Yet my faithful love is cross'd. But a radiant morn shall rise,

(Loitring moments, faster flow) When with him I'll tread the skies,

Smile at death, and laugh at woé.!

Thus she sung and strew'd the flow'r,

Beat her breast, and wept, and sigh’d; And, when toll’d the midnight hour,

On the green turf grave she died. Many a nightingale forlorn

Sung her knell, while breezes siglid : Haughty grandeur heard with scorn, How so poor a.maiden died.

Anonymous.

VOL. V.

WINIFRED, OR AN ADDRESS TO CONJUGAL LOVE.
AWAY: let nought to love displeasing,

My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,

Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.
What though no grants of royal donors

With pompous titles grace our blood;
We'll shine in more substantial honours,

And to be noble we'll be good.
Our name, while virtue thus we tender,

Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke:
And all the great ones, they shall wonder

How they respect such little folk.
What though from fortune's lavish bounty

No mighty treasures we possess ;
We'll find within our pittance plenty,

And be content without excess. Still shall each returning season

Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live a life of reason,

And that's the only life to live.
Through youth and age in love excelling,

We'll hand in hand together tread ;
Sweet smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,

And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures,

While round my knees they fondly clang; To see them look their mother's features,

To hear them lisp their mother's tongue.

And when with envy time transported,

Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go a wooing in my boys.

Anonymous.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GREY. It was a friar of orders grey

Walk'd forth to tell his beads;
And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.
Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar,

I pray thee tell to me,
If ever at yon holy shrine,

My true love thou didst see?'
* And how should I know your true-love

From any other one?'
"O, by his cocle hat and staff,

And by his sapdal shoon :
But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks, that sweetly curl'd,

And eyne of lovely blue.'
• lady, he is dead and gone!

Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green-grass turf,

And at his heels a stone.
"Within these holy cloisters long

He languish'd, and he died, Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

• Here bore him, barefác'd on his bier,

Six proper youths and tall;
And many a tear bedew'd his grave

Within yon kirk-yard wall.'

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth?

And art thou dead and gone? And didst thou die for love of me?

Break, cruel heart of stone !

"O weep not, lady, weep not so!

Some ghostly comfort seek :
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,

Nor tears bedew thy cheek.'

co do

not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove'; For I have lost the sweetest youth

That e'er won lady's love.

And now, alas ! for thy sad loss,

I'll ever weep and sigh; For thee I only wish to live,

For thee I wish to die.'

• Weep no more, lady, weep no more,

Thy sorrow is in vain : For violets pluck'd, the sweetest show'rs

Will ne'er make grow again.

•Our joys as winged dreams do fly,

Why then should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy loss,

Grieve not for what is past.'

0 say not so, thou holy friar!

I pray thee, say not so!
For since my true-love died for me,

'Tis meet my tears should flow.

And will he never come again?

Will he ne'er come again?
Ah, no! he is dead, and laid in his grave,

For ever to remain.

• His cheek was redder than the rose,

The comeliest youth was he;
But he is dead, and laid in his grave,

Alas! and woe is me!'

'Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever;
One foot on sea, and one on land,

To one thing constant never.

Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,

And left thee sad and heavy;
For young men ever were fickle found,

Since summer-trees were leafy.?

Now say not so, thou holy friar!

I pray thee, say not so!
My love he had the truest heart;

O he was ever true !

• And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth?

And didst thou die for me? Then farewell home! for evermore

A pilgrim I will be.

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