OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE TO MASSINGER'S DUKE OF MILAN, AS REPRESENTED AT A PRIVATE THEATRE. BY THE LATE T. DERMODY. WITH thunders arm'd, while o'er the trembling tide, And shakes the feathery foam that forms his crest; When her bards triumph'd as her chiefs could fight? Το prove that courage calls this isle its own: But ill, indeed, of later days accord TO SHAKSPEARE's self alone he yields the prize. Nor oft did ribaldry pollute his page:— The scholar's skill, the poet's warmth combin'd, And MILAN'S DUKE, that wooes your candid sight, And shield the wreath that crowns the learned bust. INSCRIPTION ON A JUTTING STONE OVER A SPRING. THIS sycamore, oft mufical with bees, (Such tents the Patriarchs lov'd) O long unharm'd May all its darksome boughs o'ercanopy The small round bason, which this jutting stone Keeps pure from falling leaves! still may this spring Quietly, as a sleeping infant's breath, Send up cold water for the traveller With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the fount! Here is moss, A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. Thou may'st toil far, and find no second tree. ΕΣΤΗΣΕ. THE POOR VILLAGE MAID. BY WILLIAM CASE, JUN. IN yon neat, lattic'd cot, from whose chimney ascending The smoke to the west points a column of shade, Where the jasmine and woodbine their tendrils are blending, Dwelt Mary the orphan, a poor Village Maid. Enshrin'd in her bosom sat innocence dawning, Whilst the soft cherub Beauty, each feature adorning, Bade the sweet glow of health, like the first blush of morning, Yet heighten the charms of the poor Village Maid. She was Grief's early victim-for Edward, her lover (Why, visions of bliss! why so soon did ye fade?) By a parent's harsh mandate was now a sad rover On the salt waves afar from his poor Village Maid. Her bosom alas! now seem'd bursting with sorrow, Ah! long was the time the fair mourner was striving To hide what her feelings too sadly betray'd, When tidings most dread, on a sudden arriving, Now frenzied the brain of the poor Village Maid: That a band of fierce negroes, the thickets widescouring, Had sprung on the crew, with their number o'erpowering, And murdering her Edward, then piece-meal devouring, Thus blasted the hopes of the poor Village Maid. Oft she gaz'd, as entranc'd, on the clouds that roll'd over Th' horizon, when now day's last glories decay'd, For there would she picture the ghost of her lover, Invoking with smiles his poor dear Village Maid. When at midnight the clock at the Abbey was sounding, She would play with the ivy, its dark walls surrounding, Then list to the echo, so dreary, resounding The hollow-toned steps of the poor Village Maid. If an owl cross'd her path, or an insect loud-humming, Strangely mocking the sound, her abrupt pace she stay'd, She would say 'twas the voice of her Edward now coming Again to see Mary, the poor Village Maid. Whilst frequent she wander'd, unmeaningly singing, Or the crowfoot, late cull'd, from her breast rudely flinging, E'en the scarce-lisping babe, to its mother's arms clinging, Shrunk with fear from craz'd Mary, the poor Village Maid. |