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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,
A base and wicked elfe arose,

The Witch of Wokey hight:
Oft have I heard the fearfull tale
From Sue, and Roger of the vale,

On some long winter's night.


Deep in the dreary dismall cell,
Which seem'd and was y cleped hell,

This blear-eyed hag did hide:


Nine wicked elves, as legends sayne,
She chose to form her guardian trayne,

And kennel near her side.


Here screeching owls oft made their nest,
While wolves its craggy sides possest,

Night-howling thro' the rock:
No wholesome herb could here be found;
She blasted every plant around,

And blister'd every flock.


Her haggard face was foull to see;
Her mouth unmeet a mouth to bee;

Her eyne of deadly leer;
She nought devis'd but neighbour's ill,
She wreak’d on all her wayward will,

And marrd all goodly chear.


All in her prime, have poets sung,
No gaudy youth, gallant and young,

E'er blest her longing armes :
And hence arose her spight to vex,
And blast the youth of either sex,

By dint of hellish charms.


From Glaston came a lerned wight,
Full bent to marr her fell despight,

And well he did, I ween:
Sich mischief never had been known,


And, since his mickle lerninge shown,

Sich mischief ne'er has been.

He chauntede out his godlie booke,
He crost the water, blest the brooke,

Then-pater noster done,
The ghastly hag he sprinkled o'er :
When lo! where stood a hag before,

Now stood a ghastly stone.



Full well 'tis known adown the dale :
Tho' passing strange indeed the tale,

And doubtfull may appear,
I'm bold to say, there's never a one,
That has not seen the witch in stone,

With all her household gear.


But tho’ this lernede clerke did well ;
With grieved heart, alas ! I tell,

She left this curse behind:
That Wokey-nymphs forsaken quite,
Tho' sense and beauty both unite,

Should find no leman kind.


For lo! even, as the fiend did say,
The sex have found it to this day,

That men are wondrous scant:
Here's beauty, wit, and sense combin'd,
With all that’s good and virtuous join'd,

Yet hardly one gallant.


Shall then sich maids unpitied moane?
They might as well, like her, be stone,

As thus forsaken dwell.
Since Glaston now can boast no clerks ;
Come down from Oxenford, ye sparks,

And, oh! revoke the spell.


Yet stay-nor thus despond, ye fair ;
Virtue's the gods' peculiar care ;

I hear the gracious voice:
Your sex shall soon be blest agen,
We only wait to find sich men,
As best deserve





Bryan and Pereene,


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,
Whether by nodding towers you tread,
Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clifted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,
Or starting from your half-year's sleep
From Hecla view the thawing deep,
Or at the purple dawn of day

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

of day.

The north-east wind did briskly blow,

The ship was safely moor'd;
Young Bryan thought the boat's-crew slow,

And so leapt over-board.


Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,

His heart long held in thrall,
And whoso his impatience blames,

I wot, ne'er lov’d at all.


A long long year, one month and day,

He dwelt on English land,
Nor once in thought or deed would stray,

Tho'ladies sought his hand.

For Bryan he was tall and strong,

Right blythsome rollid his een,

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