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Confounded, yet not knowing why
His wit could not one laugh supply;
And fearing lest he had mistook
The words,

again thus loudly spoke ; (Thinking again it might be tried,) “ 'T was but a lapsæ linguus,” cried. My lord, who long had quiet sat, Now clearly saw what he was at; In wrath this warning loud he gave, " When next thou triest, unlettered knave, To give, as thine, another's wit, “ Mind well thou knowest what's meant by it; “ Nor let a lapsus linguæ slip “ From out thy pert assuming lip, “ Till well thou knowest thy stolen song, “ Nor think a leg of lamb, a tongue." He said—and quickly from the floor, Straight kicked him through the unlucky door.

MORAL.

Let each pert coxcomb learn from this,
True wit will never come amiss ;
But should a borrowed phrase appear,
Derision's always in the rear.

COLIN AND LUCY. Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair

Bright Lucy was the grace ;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream

Reflect so sweet a face :
Till luckless love, and pining care,

Impaired her rosy hue,
Her coral lips, and damask cheeks,

And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh ! have you seen a lily pale,

When beating rains descend?
So drooped the slow-consuming maid,

Her life now near its end.
By
Lucy warned, of flattering swains

Take heed, ye easy fair :
Of vengeance due to broken vows,

Ye perjured swains, beware.
Three times, all in the dead of night,

A bell was heard to ring;
And shrieking at her window thrice,

The raven flapped his wing.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew

The solemn boding sound;
And thus, in dying words, bespoke

The virgins weeping round:
" I hear a voice you cannot hear,

“ Which says, I must not stay ; “ I see a hand you cannot see,

" Which beckons me away.
By a false heart, and broken vows,

" In early youth I die:
“ Was I to blame, because his bride

“ Was thrice as rich as I ? " Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,

6. Vows due to me alone : “ Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,

“ Nor think him all thy own. “ To-morrow, in the church to wed,

“Impatient, both prepare ! “ But know, fond maid ; and know, false man,

“ That Lucy will be there !

6. Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear,

“ This bridegroom blithe to meet, “ He in his wedding-trim so gay,

“ I in my winding-sheet.' She spoke, she died, her corse was borne

The bridegroom blithe to meet, He in his wedding-trim so gay,

She in her winding-sheet. Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts?

How were these nuptials kept? The bridesmen flocked round Lacy dead,

And all the village wept.
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell :
The damps of death bedewed his brow,

He shook, he groaned, he fell.
From the vain bride-ah, bride no more !

The varying crimson fled,
When, stretched before her rival's corse,

She saw her husband dead :
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,

Conveyed by trembling swains,
One mould with her, beneath one sod,

For ever he remains.
Oft at this grave, the constant hind

And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots,

They deck the sacred green:
But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,

This hallowed spot forbear;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there,

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ON VERSIFICATION. Many by Numbers judge a Poet's song; And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong: In the bright muse though thousand charms conspire, Her voice is all these tuneful fools admire; Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, Not mend their minds; as some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire; While expletives their feeble aid do join ; And ten low words oft creep in one dull line ; While they ring round the same unvaried chimes, With sure returns of still expected rhymes ; Where'er you find “the cooling western breeze,” In the next line, it " whispers through the trees;" If crystal streams “ with pleasing murmurs creep,' The reader's threatened, (not in vain,) with“ sleep;" Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes, and know What's roundly smooth, or languishingly slow; And praise the easy vigour of a line, Where Denham's strength, and Waller's sweetness join. True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learned to dance. 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense : Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar : When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow;

Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main.
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise !
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
Persians and Greeks like turns of Nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdued by Sound !

CRAZY KATE.

There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed
With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound.
A serving maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea, and died.
Her fancy followed him through foaming waves
To distant shores; and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death,
And never smiled again ! and now she roams
The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tattered apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown
More tattered still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,
Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,
Though pinched with cold, asks never.—Kate is crazed !

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