Oft at their grave the conftant hind

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

They deck the sacred green.

But, fwain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,

This hallow'd spot forbear ; Remember Colin's dreadful fate,

And fear to meet him there.

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* In a comedy of Fletcher, called The Knight of the burning Peftle, old Merry-Thought enters repeating the following verses :

When it was grown to dark midnight,

And all were fast aseep,
In came Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at Williani's feet.

This was, probably, the beginning of some ballad, commonly known, at the time when that autlor wrote ; and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to be met with. These lines, naked of ornament and simple as they are, struck my fancy: and, bringing frejh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of formerly, gave birth to the following poem ; which was written maily years ago.

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WAS at the filent, folemn hour,

When night and morning meet ;
In glided MARGARET's grimly ghot,

And stood at WILLIAM's feet.

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So fall the faireít face appear,

When youth and years are flown :
Such is the robe that kings must wear,

When death has reft their crown).

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Her bloom was like a fpringing flower',

That fips the filver dew;
The role was budded in her cheek,

Just opening to the view.

But Love, had like the canker-worm,

Consum'd her early prime :
The rose grew pale, and left her cheek ;

She'dy'd before her time.

Awake! the cry'd, thy true Love calls,

Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy Pity hear the maid,

Thy Love refus'd to fave.

This is the dumb and dreary hour,

When injur'd ghosts complain ;
When yawning graves give up their dead,

To haunt the faithlefs swain.

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,

Thy pledge and broken oath :
And give me back my maiden-vow

And give me back my

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Why did you promife love to me,

And not that promise keep?
Why did


my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?

How could you say my face was fair,

yet that face forsake ?
How could you win my virgin heart,

Yet leave that heart to break ?

Why did you say my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid !

Believe the flattering tale?

That face, alas ! no more is fair ;

Thofe lips no longer red :
Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,

And every charm is fled.

The hungry worm my sister is ;

This winding sheet I wear :
And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.

But hark! the cock has warn'd me hence ;

A long and late adieu !
Come, fee, false man, how low she lies,

Who dy'd for love of you.


The lark fung loud ; the morning smild,

With beams of rosy red :
Pale William quak'd in every limb,

And raving left his bed.

XVI. He hy'd him to the fatal place

Where Margaret's body lay : And stretch'd him on the green grass turf,

That wrap'd her breathless clay.

XVII. And thrice he callid on Margaret's name,

And thrice he wept full sore : Then laid his cheek to her cold

grave, And word spoke never more !

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