No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd-lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,

Or midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Beloved till life can charm no more;

And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

CXXVII.

OLIVER Goldsmith, 1728-1774

OLIVIA'S SONG.

HEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

WHE And finds too late that men betray;

What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is to die.

CXXVIII.

TO MARY.

WILLIAM COWPER,

1731-1800.

'HE twentieth year is well nigh past,

THE

Since first our sky was overcast ;

Ah! would that this might be the last;

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow;

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,

Now rust disused, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For though thou gladly would'st fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language uttered in a dream;

My Mary!

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,

Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,

Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently prest, press gently mine,

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest,

My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!