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Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return :
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
The boatswain gave the dreadful word;
The sails their swelling bosom spread ; No longer must she stay aboard :
They kiss'd ; she sigh'd ; he hung his head : Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : “Adieu !” she cries, and waved her lily hand.
“ 'TWAS WHEN THE SEAS."
'Twas when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind,
All on a rock reclined.
Wide o'er the foaming billows
She cast a wistful look ;
That trembled o'er the brook.
The merchant robb'd of pleasure,
Sees tempests in despair ;
To losing of my dear?
Where gold and diamonds grow, You'd find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you so.
How can they say that nature
Has nothing made in vain ; Why then, beneath the water,
Should hideous rocks remain ? No eyes the rocks discover
That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover,
And leave the maid to weep.
All melancholy lying,
Thus wail'd she for her dear ; Repaid each blast with sighing,
Each billow wiih a tear. When o'er the white wave stooping
His floating corpse she spied ; Then, like a lily drooping,
She bow'd her head, and died.
COLIN AND LUCY.
BY THOMAS TICKELL,
[THOMAS TICKELL was born at Bridekirk, in Cumberland, in 1686, and was educated at Oxford, but declined a fellowship in that University, as he was unwilling to take orders. He was made UnderSecretary of State, through the friendship of Addison, and afterwards Secretary to the Lords Justices of Ireland. He died in 1740.
Tickell contributed to the Spectator and Guardian. His poems are graceful and tender, but are deficient in variety and force. The following is his best production.]
Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace,
Reflect so sweet a face;
Till luckless love and pining care
Impair'd her rosy hue,
And eyes of glossy blue.
Oh! have you seen a lily pale
When beating rains descend ?
Her life now near its end.
By Lucy warn’d, of flattering swains
Take heed, ye easy fair !
Ye perjured swains ! beware.
Three times all in the dead of night
A bell was heard to ring,
The raven flapp'd his wing.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound,
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 thrice as rich as I ?
Ah, Colin ! give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone;
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.