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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 !"
Say, fond lover, is thy mind
Rich and high-born dotards tear
Haply health's unborrow'd hues
Though the Muse inspire thy breast;
Rival Græcia's proudést fame ;-
F. R. S.
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, Grateful the sportive breeze, as with my Sire I strayed; the half-blown petals of a rose Sudden he spied, "See'st thou, my Margaret! "That moss-clad Rosebush? how its infant germ "Is bursting into bloom!" Ah me, my Girl! "Ere those fair flowerets fade, thy hand perchance
May strew them on my grave; but, by the love "Thou bearest thy parent, I conjure thee heed "This my request; when I am dead, this tree "Be thine to tend, to prune, and kindly shield "From winter's chilly blights." I little thought, Thy bodings, OWEN! were alas too just! How lately did'st thou to our social hut
The way worn traveller hail, before him spread