Distorted was that blooming face,

Which fhe had fondly lov'd fo long: And ftifled was that tuneful breath,

Which in her praife had fweetly fung:

And fever'd was that beauteous neck,

Round which her arms had fondly clos'd; And mangled was that beauteous breast,... On which her love fick head repos'd'

She bore this conftant heart to fee
But when 'twas moulder'd into duft,
Yet, yet, fhe cried, I'll follow thee.

My death, my death alone can fhow

The pure and lafting love I bore: Accept, O heaven, of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more.

The difmal fcene was o'er and past,

The lover's mournful hearfe retir'd; The maid drew back her languid head, And fighing forth his name, expir'd.

Tho' juftice ever muft prevail,

The tear my Kitty fheds is due; For feldom fhall fhe hear a tale,

So fad, fo tender, and fo true.

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XVII.

THE WITCH OF WO KEY,

-was published in a small collection of poems intitled, EUTHEMIA, OR THE POWER OF HARMONY, &c. 1756. written by an ingenious Physician near Bath, who chose to conceal his name. The following contains fome variations from the original copy, which it is hoped the author will pardon, when he is informed they came from the elegant pen of the late Mr. Shenstone.

WOKEY - HOLE is which has given birth to Sybils Cave in Italy.

a noted cavern in Somersetshire, as many wild fanciful stories as the Thro' a very narrow entrance, it

opens into a large vault, the roof whereof, either on account of its height, or the thickneß of the gloom, cannot be difcovered by the light of torches. It goes winding a great way under ground, is croft by a stream of very cold water, and is all horrid with broken pieces of rock: many of these are evident petrifactions, which on account of their fingular forms, have given rise to the fables alluded to in this poem.

IN aunciente days tradition fhowes

A bafe and wicked elfe arofe,
The Witch of Wokey hight:
Oft have I heard the fearfull tale
From Sue, and Roger of the vale,
On some long winter's night.

Deep in the dreary 'difmall cell,
Which feem'd and' was ycleped hell,

This blear-eyed hag did hide :

Nine wicked elves, as legends fayne,
She chofe to form her guardian trayne,

And kennel near her fide.

Here fcreeching owls oft made their neft,
While wolves its craggy fides poffeft,
Night-howling thro' the rock :

No wholefome herb could here be found;
She blafted every plant around,

And blifter'd every flock.

Her haggard face was foull to fee;
Her mouth unmeet a mouth to bee;

Her eyne of deadly leer,

She nought devis'd, but neighbour's ill;
She wreak'd on all her wayward will,
And marr'd all goodly chear.

For lo! even, as the fiend did fay,
The fex have found it to this day,
That men are wondrous fcant:
Here's beauty, wit, and fenfe combin'd,
With all that's good and virtuous join'd,
Yet hardly one gallant.

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They might as well, like her, be stone,

As thus forfaken dwell.

Since Glafton now can boaft no clerks; AÐ Í

Come down from Oxenford, ye sparks,

And, oh! revoke the spell.

Yet stay

nor thus defpond, ye fair

Virtue's the gods' peculiar care;

I hear the gracious voice:
Your fex fhall foon be bleft agen,
We only wait to find fich men,

As beft deferve your choice.

XVIII.

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is founded on a real fact, that happened in the island of St. Chriftophers about two years ago. The editor owes the following stanzas to the friendship of Dr. JAMES GRAINGER*, who was in the island when this tragical incident happened, and is now an eminent phyfician there. To this ingenious gentleman the public is indebted for the fine ODE ON SOLITUDE printed in the IVth Vol. of Dodfley's Mifcel. p. 229. in which are affembled fome of the Sublimest images in nature. The reader will pardon the infertion of the first Stanza here, for the Sake of rectifying the two last lines, which ought to be corrected thus

O Solitude, romantic maid,

Whether by nodding towers you tread,
Or haunt the defart's trackleß gloom
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clifted fide,
Or by the Nile's coy fource 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 waftes furvey, &c.

alluding to the account of Palmyra published by Some late ingenious travellers, and the manner in which they were struck at the first fight of thofe magnificent ruins by break of day **.

THE

* Author of a poem on the Culture of the SUGAR CANE lately published.

** So in pag. 335. Turn'd her magic ray.