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On he goes ! ----resistless Fate
Hastes to fill his mortal date :
Cease, ye warnings, vain tho' true
Murder'd King, adieu! adieu !

SUSANNA'S VIGIL.

Twelve times the slow-voiced village clock

From moss-grown turret sounded deep; The guardian dogs, the folded flock,

And toil-spent hinds, were sunk in sleep.

Alone Susanna wak'd: her arm,

Tear-moisten'd, propt her languid head; Full on her heart she felt th' alarm,

And sudden started froin her bed.

On this sad night a year had rollid,

A year of sorrow's darkest shade, Since low beneath the hallow'd mould

Her William's clay-cold corse was laid.

Too well her memory kept the date

Of woes that knew but one relief; ' And forih she went, with tottering gait,

To taste the luxury of grief.

Across the green, the church-yard way

She scarce discern'd anid the gloom, Till from the noon a friendly ray

Burst thro' and glean'd on William's tomb.

With throbbing breast she sought the place,

And knelt beside the sacred stone ; To heav'n she turn'd her pallid face,

And clasp'd her hands in speechless moan.

At length she cried (her hollow voice

Broke awful thro' the shades of night), « Dear object of my

earliest choice, Once my heart's joy, my eyes' delight;

If yet, a spirit clad in air,

Thou hoverest round these cold remains; If earthly things be yet thy care,

Thy once-lov'd friends, and native plains;

Oh turn thy pitying looks of love

Onlier, thy own bethrouled maid ; Brood o'er her like the tender dove,

And fly to thy Susanna's aid !

Twelve dismal months this tortur'd breast

Nor joy nor soft repose has felt; Oh enter thou, a sainted guest,

And grief in holy fervours melt!

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So shall these poor remains of breath

No more in sighs accuse my fate; But for the welcome stroke of death

In peace my patient soul shall wait.”

This said, she rose: and now she hears

(With Fancy's fond illusions warm) Sweet music trilling in her ears,

And sees her William's glittring form.

The vision ceas'd.- She slow returns,

With backward look and falt'ring pace; With rapture's fire her bosom burns,

While feverish lustre lights her face.

Now faint, exhausted, on her bed

Her limbs the lovely mourner throws; Kind sleep around his poppies shed,

And Nature sinks in calm repose.

But deep within her aching breast

Lurks the keen foe that saps her life; And soon in one eternal rest

Must close the sorrowing ling'ring strife,

THE HAMLET.

Written in Whichwood Forest.

The hinds how blest, who ne'er beguild
To quit their hamlet's hawthorn-wild;
Nor haunt the crow'd, nor tempt the main,
For splendid care and guilty gain!

When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, They rove abroad in æther blue, To dip the scythe in fragrant dew: The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, That nodding shades a craggy dell.

Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, Wild Nature's sweetest notes they hear: On green untrodden banks they view The hyacinth's neglected hue : In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds, They spy the squirrel's airy bounds: And startle from her ashen spray, Across the glen, the screaming jay: Each native charm their steps explore Of Solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the moon, with cloudless tay, Mounts, to illume their homeward way: Their wears spirits to relieve, The meadows incense breathe at eve : No riot mars the simple fare That o'er a glimmering hearth they share: But when the curfeu's measur'd roar Duly, the darkening vallies v'er, Has echoed from the distant town, They wish no beds of cygnet-down, No trophied canopy to close Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

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Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primros'd coppice stray, Or ga nbol in the new-mown lay: Or quaintly braid the cowslip twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill To loiter at the shady rill; Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest To rob the raven's ancient nest.

Their humble porch with honied flowers The curling woodbine's shade embowers : From the trim garden's thymy mound Their bees in busy swarms resound: Nor sell Diseasė, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime:

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