XIV. If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose Within some breast of less obdurate frame, Lo! where its hideous form a Phantom shows Full in his view, and CUCKOLD is its name. Him Scorn attended with a glance askew, And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own, Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew, And vex'd the region round the Cupid's throne: "Far be from us, they cry'd, the treach'rous bane, "Far be the dimply guile, and far the flow'ry chain !" SONG. Say, fond lover, is thy mind Rich and high-born dotards tear Haply health's unborrow'd hues Though the Muse inspire thy breast; If nor rank nor wealth be thine: F. R. S. OWEN'S GRAVE. Margaret lamenting over her Father's Grave. By WILLIAM CASE, Junr. Ah low beneath this flowery coverture Thy relics, Owen! lie. Thrice hath the Moon Her crescent fill'd, since first poor Margaret, Thy soul's belov'd, to this thy mortal shrine Spring's balmy incense brought, thy honor'd name For Owen's sake. O how the Violet The tepid morn of Spring would hail, its breath All fragrance, and its purple buds unclose Beside our casement; but, my Father! soon, Thy loss methought lamenting, soon it cast Its withering leaves, and died. This vermil Rose, Pluck'd from the favorite tree thine own hands rear'd, Shall o'er its planter's humble sepulchre Its short-lived sweets exhale. Ah me! the time I well remember, 'twas one summer eve, The wayworn traveller hail, before him spread |