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FROM POEMS ; BY THE REV. GEORGE CRABBE.

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TALES OF THE HALL, VOL. III. SOFTLY she left her door, her garden gate, And seemed as then committed to her fate; To every horrid thought and doubt a prey, She hurried on, already lost her way: Oft as she glided on in that sad night, She stopped to listen and she looked for light. The inoon was risen, and she sometimes shone Through thick white clouds, that flew tumultuous on, Passing beneath her with an eagle's speed, That ber soft light imprisoned, and then freed ; The fitful glimmering through the hedge-row green, Gave a strange beauty to the changing scene; And roaring winds and rushing waters lent Their mingled voice that to the spirit went. To these she listened; but new sounds were heard, And sight more startling to her soul appeared; There were low lengthened tones, with sobs between, And near at hand, but nothing yet was seen; She hurried on, and “ Who is there?" she cried, “ A dying wretch!"-was from the earth replied. It was her lover-it was the man she gave, The price she paid, himself from death to save; With whom, expiring, she must kneel and pray, While the soul Aitted from the shivering clay, That pressed the dewy ground, and bled its life away!

Smugglers and Ponchers, Book XXI. page 203. No. 40.

X

VIGILS OF LOVE.

ΤΟ

OH! I have loitered at thy gate,

And fanned young Hope's delusive fire; And though convinced 'twas vain to wait,

Still something bade me not retire. Each distant footfall that I caught,

Amidst the stillness of the night, Conceptive Fancy idly thought

The fond forerunner of delight. And every taper's twinkling ray

That glanced aloft from room to room, Seemed kindly to command my stay,

And still my weary watch resume. And every bolt that cautious care

Within tlie rusty staple drew, Moved not predictive of despair,

But moments blessed with love and you. Oft to the wicket have I ran,

Deceived by some approaching tread; But, ah! it was not thee, my Ann,

That o'er the gravelly pathway sped. Then back

joy hath coldly rushed; And whilst a sigh my pain confess'd,

My cheek with conscious shame hath blushed. Oft through the misty vale of eve,

A fleeting shadow hath beguiled;
But, ah! it only came, to leave

My heart more desolate and wild !
The woodbine's Aaunting boughs have been

To me thy bonnet's waving plume;
And in the silvery birch I've seen

Thy light form glimmering through the gloom.

The tide op in my throbbing breast

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And oft, as some unwonted sound

Awoke a whispering echo near, With breathless pause I've glanced around,

And thought thy voice surprised my ear. But no resembling voice was heard :

Nought, save the spirit of the breeze,
Whose sighs in wanton mockery stirred

The rustling foliage of the trees.
And when the midnight bell proclaimed

'Twas time to breathe a sad farewell, Though outraged Reason sternly blamed,

She could not break the binding spell. Still have I loitered at thy gate,

Till morn diffused her blushing ray; Then, sorrowing o'er my hapless fate,

Reluctant-slowly-turned away. Yet, as I turned, a lingering glance

My anxious eye would backward cast; Whilst cach dull effort to advance

Grew tardier, sadder than the last. Long on the distant hill I've stood,

Whence, like a speck thy cot appears, And gazed until with heart subdued,

The landscape faded through my tears. The early hinds I've chanced to meet,

Have all their dark suspicions had; Some, half-afraid, would mildly greet,

Whilst others, winking, deemed me mad! Wilt thou-ah, never !-deign to bless ?

Must thus my vigils always prove? One bour with thee were happiness

All other human joys above. Come, with those melting charms of thine,

And though the tempest fiercely howl, They'll shed, endued with light divine, Unclouded sunshine o'er my soul!

No keen regret, no sullying shade,

On Meniory's record ihen would live, But every pang be overpaid

By rapturesthou alone canst give! February 24, 1821.

CHARLES FEIST.

STANZAS,
TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.
NAY, weep not so, dispel this gloom,

Nor sink beneath thy weight of care; *:!
But let thy face once more assume

The smile that it was wont to wear.
Let friendship's voice thy pillow smooth,

And lull thy troubled thoughts to rest;
Mine be the task thy griefs to soothe,

And calm the torments of thy breast.
For I have deeply drank of woe;

But now, thank God! those days are o’er;
And thine will pass, for well we know

The hand that smites can also cure.
'Tis by afflictions we are brought

To yield the world, and flee to God;
By disappointments we are taught,

With souls resigned, to“ kiss the rod.”
Sweet is the sympathetic sigh-

And thou hast heaved that sigh for me ;
Mourned for my sorrows, and shall I

Refuse to shed one tear for thee ?
Ah no, dear girl! thou know'st my heart

In joy, in grief, to thine has clung :
Yes, we have each sustained our part,

Together wept, together sung.
The poets talk of Lethe's stream,

And tell us 'tis à cure for woe;
But, oh! 'tis all an idle dream,

They know not where its waters flow.
There is a stream in heaven,

Which cleanses sin, and purges pain;
And they to whom this stream is given
To drink, shall never thirst again.'

AMANDA.

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