Ding-dong! ding-dong! Swinging o'er the weltering wave! Our deathbeds bleak, Where the green sod grows upon the grave. The Goddess of Consumption. Come, Melancholy, sister mine! Cold the dews, and chill the night! Come from thy dreary shrine ! The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, Troops of squalid spectres play, Startles the Night on her dusky throne. Gliding on the pale moonshine : We'll ride at ease, On the tainted breeze, The Goddess of Melancholy. Sister, from my dark abode, Where nests the raven, sits the toad, Hither I come at thy command: Sister, sister, join thy hand! Sister, sister, join thy hand! Lay our snares, and spread our tether! And the grass shall wave Where youth and beauty sleep together. Come, let us speed our way! Thou shalt smooth the way for me; O'er many a grave Where youth and beauty sleep together. Hist! sister, hist! who comes here? And she is thine, Now the deadliest draught prepare. Consumption. In the dismal night-air dress'd, Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, When they sparkle most, she dies! On heavenly diet When death has deflower'd her eye. THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG TO THE NIGHT. THOU spirit of the spangled night! I woo thee from the watch-tower high, The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, Sweet is the scented gale of morn, That marks thy mournful reign. And I have linger'd in the shade, And I have hail'd the gray morn high But never could I tune my reed, The day-spring brings not joy to me, And then I talk, and often think And, oh! I am not then alone- And when the blust'ring winter winds And pleasant are my dreams. And Fancy gives me back my wife; Then hateful is the morning hour, The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD THE NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION. SLEEP, baby mine, enkerchief'd on my bosom, Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining, Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, And I would fain compose my aching head. Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weep ing, When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be? Who then will sooth thee when thy mother's sleepIn her low grave of shame and infamy? [ing Sleep, baby mine; to-morrow I must leave thee, And I would snatch an interval of rest: Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee, For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. SONNET. GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. I shall not want the world's delusive joys; Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; MRS. COCKBURN. 1679-1749. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. I've seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling, |