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No parent's hand, with pious care
My childhood's devious steps to guide
Or bid
my venturous youth beware

The griefs that smote on every side.
'Twas still a round of changing woe,
Woe never ending, still begun,
That taught my bleeding heart to know
The poor man's labour's never done.
Soon dies the faltering voice of fame;
The vow of love's too warm to last;
And friendship! what a faithless dream,
And wealth! how soon thy glare is past.
But sure one hope remains to save,

The longest course must soon be run ; And, in the shelter of the grave,

The poor man's labour must be done.

CCXLVIII. JOHN LOWE, 1750-1798.
MARY'S DREAM.

The moon had climbed the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
When, soft and low, a voice was heard,
Saying, ' Mary, weep no more for me!'
She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow e'e.
'O Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.

E'en then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee
The storm is past, and I at rest;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
O maiden dear, thyself prepare;

We soon shall meet upon that shore,
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more!'
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,

'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!'
CCXLIX. SHERIDAN, 1751-1816.

1. SONG-I ne'er could any lustre see.
I ne'er could any lustre see
In eyes that would not look on me;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,

But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart,
Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art?
I will own the colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.
Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it grateful press again;
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so when I see

That heaving bosom sigh for me.
2. SONG O the days!

O the days when I was young,
When I laugh'd in Fortune's spite,
Talk'd of love the whole day long,
And with nectar crown'd the night!

Then it was, old father Care;

Little reck'd I of thy frown,
Half thy malice youth could bear,
And the rest a bumper drown.

Truth, they say, lies in a well,
Why, I vow I ne'er could see,
Let the water-drinkers tell,
There it always lay for me:

For, when sparkling wine went round,
Never saw I falsehood's mask,

But still honest truth I found
In the bottom of each flask.
True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay;
Few the locks that now I own,
And the few I have are gray.
Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast,
While thy spirits do not tire,
Still beneath thy age's frost
Glows a spark of youthful fire.

CCL. CHATTERTON [ROWLEY], 1752-1770.

DEATH OF SIR C. BALDWIN.

The feather'd songster chanticleer
Had wound his bugle-horn,

And told the early villager

The coming of the morn.

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks

Of light eclipse the gray;

And heard the raven's croaking throat

Proclaim the fated day.

"Thou'rt right," quoth he, " for, by the God
That sits enthroned on high,

Charles Baldwin, and his fellows twain
To-day shall surely die."

Then with a jug of nappy ale

His knights did on him wait;

"Go, tell the traitor, that to-day

He leaves this mortal state."
Sir Canterlone then bended low,
With heart brimful of woe;
He journey'd to the castle gate,
And to Sir Charles did go.

But, when he came, his children twain,
And eke his loving wife,

With briny tears did wet the floor
For good Sir Charles's life.

"O good Sir Charles!" said Canterlone,
"Bad tidings I do bring."

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Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir Charles, "What says thy traitor king?"

"I grieve to tell, before

yon sun Does from the welkin fly,

He hath upon his honor sworn,

That thou shalt surely die."

"We all must die," quoth brave Sir Charles,
"Of that I'm not afeard;
What boots to live a little space?
Thank Jesu, I'm prepared.

But tell thy king, for mine he's not,
I'd sooner die to-day

Than live his slave, as many are,
Though I should live for aye."
Then Canterlone he did go out,
To tell the mayor strait
To get all things in readiness

For good Sir Charles's fate.

Then Master Canning sought the king,
And fell down on his knee,
"I'm come," quoth he, "unto your grace
To move your clemency."
Then quoth the king, "Your tale speak out;
You have been much our friend;
Whatever your request may be,

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We will to it attend."

My noble liege, all my request

Is for a noble knight,

Who, though mayhap he has done wrong,
He thought it still was right.

He has a spouse and children twain;
All ruin'd are for aye,

If that you are resolv'd to let

Charles Baldwin die to-day."

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Speak not of such a traitor vile,"
The king in fury said;

"Before the evening star doth sheen,
Baldwin shall lose his head.

Justice does loudly for him call,
And he shall have his meed.

Speak, Master Canning, what thing else
At present do you need?"

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My noble liege," good Canning said, "Leave justice to our God,

And lay the iron rule aside;

Be thine the olive rod.

Was God to search our hearts and reins, The best were sinners great;

Christ's vicar only knows no sin,

In all this mortal state.

Let mercy rule thy infant reign,
"Twill fast thy crown full sure,
From race to race thy family

All sovereigns shall endure.
But if with blood and slaughter thou
Begin thy infant reign,

Thy crown upon thy children's brows
Will never long remain."

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Canning, away! this traitor vile

Has scorn'd my power and me; How canst thou then for such a man Intreat my clemency ?"

"My noble liege, the truly brave
Will valorous act.ons prize;

Respect a brave and noble mind,
Although in enemies."

"Canning, away! By God in heaven,
That did me being give,

I will not taste a bit of bread

Whilst this Sir Charles doth live.
By Mary and all saints in heaven,
This sun shall be his last.'

Then Canning dropped a briny tear,
And from the presence past.

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