Tell, too, how his ghost, all bloody, Frighten'd once a neighb'ring goody; And how, still at twelve he stalks, Groaning o'er the wild-wood walks. Then, when fear usurps her sway, Each for ghosts, but little bolder, SONG SWEET Jessy! I would fain caress Sweet Jessy! I with passion burn Yet Jessy, lovely as Thy form and face appear, I'd perish ere I would consent To buy them with a tear. SONG. OH, that I were the fragrant flower that kisses My Arabella's breast that heaves on high; Pleased should I be to taste the transient blisses, And on the melting throne to faint, and die. Oh, that I were the robe that loosely covers That clasp her waste in many an aëry twine. Oh, that my soul might take its lasting station But chain'd to this dull being, I must ever Lament the doom by which I'm hither placed; Must pant for moments I must meet with never, And dream of beauties I must never taste. FRAGMENT OF AN 1 ECCENTRIC DRAMA WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. In a little volume which Henry had copied out, apparently for the press, before the publication of Clifton Grove, the Song with which this fragment commences was inserted, under the title of "The Dance of the Consumptives, in imitation of Shakspeare, taken from an eccentric Drama, written by H. K. W. when very young." The rest was discovered among his loose papers, in the first rude draught, having, to all appearance, never been transcribed. The song was extracted when he was sixteen, and must have been written at least a year before, probably more, by the hand-writing. There is something strikingly wild and original in the fragment. THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. 1. DING-DONG! ding-dong! Merry, merry, go the bells, Ding-dong! ding-dong! Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale, "Swinging slow with sullen roar," Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay! Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away. 2. Round the oak, and round the elm, It keeps its post, And soon, and soon, our sports must fail: But let us trip the nightly ground, While the merry, merry bells ring round. 3. Hark! hark! the death-watch ticks! See, see, the winding-sheet! Our dance is done, Our race is run, And we must lie at the alder's feet! Ding-dong! ding-dong! Merry, merry go the bells, Swinging o'er the weltering wave! And we must seek Our death-beds bleak, Where the green sod grows upon the grave. |