Reliques of Ancient English Poetry consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and other Pieces of our earlier Poets, (Chiefly of the Lyric kind.) Together with some few of later Date |
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Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||
XVI. BRYAN AND PEREENE,
A West-Indian Ballad,
—is founded on a real fact, that happened in the island
of St. Christophers about two years ago. The editor owes the
Whether by nodding towers you tread,
Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clifted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,
Or starting from your half-year's sleep,
From Hecla view the thawing deep,
Or at the purple dawn of day
Tadmor's marble wastes survey, &c.
alluding to the account of Palmyra published by some late ingenious travellers, and the manner in which they were struck at the first sight of those magnificent ruins by break of day .
The ship was safely moor'd,
Young Bryan thought the boat's-crew slow,
And so leapt over-board.
His heart long held in thrall,
And whoso his impatience blames,
I wot, ne'er lov'd at all.
He dwelt on English land,
Nor once in thought or deed would stray,
Tho' ladies sought his hand.
Right blythsome roll'd his een,
Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung,
He scant had twenty seen.
That grac'd his mistress true;
Such charms the old world seldom saw,
Nor oft I ween the new.
Like tendrils of the vine;
Her cheeks red dewy rose buds deck,
Her eyes like diamonds shine.
She cast her weeds away,
And to the palmy shore she hied,
All in her best array.
She there impatient stood;
The crew with wonder saw the lad
Repell the foaming flood.
Which he at parting gave;
Well pleas'd the token he survey'd,
And manlier beat the wave.
Rejoicing crowd the strand;
For now her lover swam in call,
And almost touch'd the land.
To clasp her lovely swain;
When, ah! a shark bit through his waste:
His heart's blood dy'd the main!
Streaming with purple gore,
And soon it found a living grave,
And ah! was seen no more.
Fetch water from the spring:
She falls, she swoons, she dies away,
And soon her knell they ring.
Ye fair, fresh flowerets strew,
So may your lovers scape his doom,
Her hapless fate scape you.
Reliques of Ancient English Poetry | ||