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was written by Thomas Tickel, Efq; the celebrated friend of Mr. Addifon, and editor of his works. He was fon of a Clergyman in the north of England, had his education at Queen's college Oxon, was under-fecretary to Mr. Addifon and Mr. Cragge, when fucceffively fecretaries of fate; and was lafly (in June 1724) appointed fecretary to the Lord Juftices in Ireland, which place he held till his death in 1740. He acquired Mr. Addifon's patronage by a poem in praise of the opera of Rosamond written while he was at the University.
F Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid ftream
Till luckless love, and pining care,
Impair'd her rofy hue,
Her coral lips, and damask cheek,
Oh! have you feen a lilly pale,
By Lucy warn'd, of flattering fwains,
Of vengeance due to broken vows
Three times all in the dead of night,
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew,
"I hear a voice, you cannot hear,
"By a false heart, and broken vows, "In early youth I die. "Am I to blame, because his bride "Is thrice as rich as I?
Ah Colin give her not thy vows; "Vows due to me alone;
"Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kifs, "Nor think him all thy own.
"To-morrow in the Church to wed, "Impatient, both prepare ;
"But know, fond maid, and know, falfe man "That Lucy will be there.
Then bear my corfe: ye comrades, bear, "The bridegroom blithe to meet ; "He in his wedding trim fo gay,
"I in my winding fheet."
She fpoke, fhe dy'd-her corfe was borne,
He in his wedding trim fo gay,
She in her winding sheet.
Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?
Confufion, fhame, remorfe, defpair,
At once his bofom fwell :
The damps of death bedew'd his brow,
From the vain bride, (ah bride no more)
When, fretch'd before her rival's corfe,
Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Oft at their grave the conftant hind
But, fwain forfworn, whoe'er thou art, This hallow'd fpot forbear; Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.
In a comedy of Fletcher, called The Knight of the burning Pefle, old Merry-Thought enters repeating the following verfes:
When it was grown to dark midnight,
In came Margaret's grimly ghoft,
And flood at William's feet.
This was, probably, the beginning of fome ballad, commonly known, at the time when that author wrote; and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to be met with. Thefe lines, naked of ornament and fimple as they are, ftruck my fancy: and, bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of formerly, gave birth to the following poem; which was written many years ago.