 | The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison |  |
184
SONG.
I
'Twas in the solemn Noon of Night,As I lay by a murmuring Stream,
Betray'd by Fancy's sweet Delight,
Amus'd by an amorous Dream.
II
When strait I heard, or seem'd to hear,From an Ivy's dark reverend Shade,
A solemn Sound assault mine Ear,
And heavily pierce the thick Glade.
III
But soon a faint-pale Form appear'd,Like a Shade on a Moon-shiny Wall;
To it's gor'd Breast it's Hand it rear'd,
And utter'd this sorrowful Call.
185
IV
O pity me kind hearted Swain!For you knew, ah too well! the false Maid;
She lov'd me first, first sooth'd my Pain,
She sooth'd it, but then she betray'd!
V
Depress'd with Anguish, Rage, and Grief,I fatally sought out this Grove,
Here rashly cut the Thread of Life,
And ended all Hopes of my Love!
VI
But yet, tho' Beauty cannot please,And, tho' I'm now tasteless of Charms,
'Twill rob me of eternal Rest,
To think her enjoy'd in thy Arms.
VII
Yet once, I think, thou wert my Friend,Till the Friend in the Rival was lost,
O kindly let the Rival end,
Nor farther torment a poor Ghost!
186
VIII
For this a restless Shade I rove—Be warn'd by my pitiful Fate!
Betimes, betimes renounce your Love,
Nor ponder this Lesson too late!
IX
So may good Angels guard thy sleep—But I to the false-hearted Maid
Will glide, and thro' the Curtains peep;
There shew Her the Man she betray'd.
X
She cannot, sure, she cannot seeSo wretched an Object unmov'd!
At least, I think, she'll pity me,
More truly, than ever she lov'd.
XI
Farewel—but, go to yonder Cave,Where my Bones to the Ravens lie bare;
Inhume them kindly in a Grave,
And my Fame from Aspersors, O clear!
187
XII
I trembled as the Spectre spoke,And starting, awak'd with the Fright,
While the hoarse Night-Bird's hollow Croak,
Presented the shivering Sprite.
XIII
A sudden Chillness freez'd my Breast,My Soul in a Terror was fled;
Fainting, I sunk, benumb'd, oppress'd;
And dreamt that Beliza was dead.
XIV
When soon, for now the dawning LightBe-jewell'd the dew-dropping Vale,
A Youth came posting thro' the Night;
To tell me the fore-boded Tale.
XV
The Maid was dead—my Fears were justI arose, and soon found out the Cave,
Prepar'd an Urn, then mix'd their Dust,
And weeping laid both in a Grave.
| The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | |