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He chauntede out his godlie booke,
He crost the water, blest the brooke,
Then-pater-noster done,

The ghastly hag he sprinkled o'er:
When lo! where stood a hag before,
Now stood a ghastly stone.

Full well 'tis known adown the dale:
Tho' passing strange indeed the tale,
And doubtfull may appear,
I'm bold to say, there's never a one,
That has not seen the witch in stone,
With all her household gear.

But tho' this lernede clerke did well;
With grieved heart, alas! I tell,

She left this curse behind:
That Wokey-nymphs forsaken quite,
Tho' sense and beauty both unite,
Should find no leman kind.

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Here's beauty, wit, and sense combin'd,
With all that's good and virtuous join'd,
Yet hardly one gallant.

Shall then sich maids unpitied moane?
They might as well, like her, be stone,
As thus forsaken dwell.

Since Glaston now can boast no clerks;
Come down from Oxenford, ye sparks,
And, oh! revoke the spell.

Yet stay-nor thus despond, ye fair;
Virtue's the gods' peculiar care;

I hear the gracious voice:
Your sex shall soon be blest agen,
We only wait to find sich men,
As best deserve your choice.


Bryan and Pereene,


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Is founded on a real fact, that happened in the Island of St. Christopher's, about 1760. The editor owes the following stanzas to the friendship of Dr. James Grainger1, who was an eminent physician in that island when this tragical incident happened, and died there much honoured and lamented in 1767. To this ingenious gentleman the public is indebted for the fine Ode on Solitude, printed in the fourth volume of Dodsley's Miscellanies, p. 229, in which are assembled some of the sublimest images in nature. The reader will pardon the insertion of the first stanza here, for the sake of rectifying the two last lines, which were thus given by the author:

O Solitude, romantic maid,

Whether by nodding towers you tread.

Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,

1 Author of a poem on the Culture of the Sugar-Cane, &c.

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 north-east wind did briskly blow,
The ship was safely moor'd;

Young Bryan thought the boat's-crew slow,
And so leapt over-board.

Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,

His heart long held in thrall,

And whoso his impatience blames,
I wot, ne'er lov'd at all.

A long long year, one month and day,
He dwelt on English land,

Nor once in thought or deed would stray,
Tho' ladies sought his hand.

For Bryan he was tall and strong,
Right blythsome roll'd his een,




Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung,
He scant had twenty seen.


But who the countless charms can draw,
That grac'd his mistress true;

Such charms the old world seldom saw,

Nor oft I ween the new.


Her raven hair plays round her neck,

Like tendrils of the vine;

Her cheeks red dewy rose buds deck,

Her eyes like diamonds shine,

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When, ah! a shark bit through his waist:

His heart's blood dy'd the main!

He shriek'd! his half sprang from the wave,


Streaming with purple gore,

And soon it found a living grave,

And ah! was seen no more.

Now haste, now haste, ye maids, I pray,

Fetch water from the spring:


She falls, she swoons, she dies away,

And soon her knell they ring.

Now each May morning round her tomb,

Ye fair, fresh flowrets strew,

So may your lovers scape his doom,


Her hapless fate scape you.


Gentle River, Gentle River.



ALTHOUGH the English are remarkable for the numbe and variety of their ancient ballads, and retain perhaps/ greater fondness for these old simple rhapsodies of thei ancestors than most other nations, they are not the only people who have distinguished themselves by compositions of this kind. The Spaniards have great multitudes of then many of which are of the highest merit. They call them in their language romances, and have collected them into volumes under the titles of El Romancero, El Cancionero 1, &c. Most of them relate to their conflicts with the Moors, display a spirit of gallantry peculiar to that romantic people. But, of all the Spanish ballads, none exceed in poetical merit those inserted in a little Spanish History of the Ciri Wars of Granada, describing the dissensions which raged in that last seat of Moorish empire, before it was conquered in the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella, in 1491. In this History (or perhaps Romance) a great number of heroic songs are inserted, and appealed to as authentic vouchers for the truth of facts. In reality, the prose narrative seems to be drawn up for no other end, but to introduce and illustrate these beautiful pieces.

The Spanish editor pretends (how truly I know not) that they are translations from the Arabic or Morisco language. Indeed, from the plain, unadorned nature of the verse, and the native simplicity of the language and sentiment which runs through these poems, one would judge them to have been composed soon after the conquest of Granada above mentioned; as the prose narrative in which they are inserted, was published about a century after. It should seem, at least, that they were written before the Castilians had formed themselves so generally, as they have done since, on the model of the Tuscan poets, or had imported from Italy that fondness for conceit and refinement, which has for near two 1 i. e. The ballad-singer.

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