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The Witch of adokep. Was published in a small collection of Poems, entitled Euthemia, or the Power of Harmony, &c., 1756, written in 1748, by the ingenious Dr. Harrington, of Bath, who never allowed them to be published, and withheld his name till it could no longer be concealed. The following contains some variations from the original copy, which it is hoped the author will pardon, when he is informed they came from the elegant pen of the late Mr. Shenstone.
Wokey-hole is a noted cavern in Somersetshire, which has given birth to as many wild fanciful stories, as the Sybil's Cave in Italy. Through a very narrow entrance, it opens into a large vault, the roof whereof, either on account of its height, or the thickness of the gloom, cannot be discovered by the light of torches. It goes winding a great way under ground, is crost by a stream of very cold water, and is all horrid with broken pieces of rock : many of these are evident petrifactions, which, on account of their singular forms, have given rise to the fables alluded to in this poem.
In aunciente days, tradition showes,
The Witch of Wokey hight:
On some long winter's night.
Deep in the dreary dismall cell,
This blear-eyed hag did hide:
Nine wicked elves, as legends sayne,
And kennel near her side.
Here screeching owls oft made their nest,
Night-howling thro' the rock:
And blister'd every flock.
Her haggard face was foull to see;
Her eyne of deadly leer;
And marrd all goodly chear.
All in her prime, have poets sung,
E'er blest her longing armes :
By dint of hellish charms.
From Glaston came a lerned wight,
And well he did, I ween:
And, since his mickle lerninge shown,
Sich mischief ne'er has been.
He chauntede out his godlie booke,
Then-pater noster done,
Now stood a ghastly stone.
Full well 'tis known adown the dale :
And doubtfull may appear,
With all her household gear.
But tho’ this lernede clerke did well ;
She left this curse behind:
Should find no leman kind.
For lo! even, as the fiend did say,
That men are wondrous scant:
Yet hardly one gallant.
Shall then sich maids unpitied moane?
As thus forsaken dwell.
And, oh! revoke the spell.
Yet stay-nor thus despond, ye fair ;
I hear the gracious voice:
Bryan and Pereene,
A WEST-INDIAN BALLAD,
Is founded on a real fact, that happened in the Island of St. Christophers, about 1760. The editor owes the following stanzas to the friendship of Dr. James Grainger, * who was an eminent physician in that island when this tragical incident happened, and died there much honoured and lamented, in 1767. To this ingenious gentleman the public is indebted for the fine Ode on Solitude, printed in the fourth volume of Dodsley's Miscellanies, p. 229, in which are assembled some of the sublimest images in nature. The reader will pardon the insertion of the first stanza here, for the sake of rectifying the two last lines, which were thus given by the author :
* Author of a poem on the Culture of the Sugar-Cane, &c.
O Solitude, romantic maid,
Tadmor's marble wastes survey, &c. alluding to the account of Palmyra published by some late ingenious travellers, and the manner in which they were struck at the first sight of those magnificent ruins by break
The north-east wind did briskly blow,
The ship was safely moor'd;
And so leapt over-board.
Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,
His heart long held in thrall,
I wot, ne'er lov’d at all.
A long long year, one month and day,
He dwelt on English land,
Tho'ladies sought his hand.
For Bryan he was tall and strong,
Right blythsome rollid his een,