COLIN AND LUCY.

BY THOMAS TICKELL.

[THOMAS TICKELL was born at Bridekirk, in Cumberland, in 1686, and was educated at Oxford, but declined a fellowship in that University, as he was unwilling to take orders. He was made UnderSecretary of State, through the friendship of Addison, and afterwards Secretary to the Lords Justices of Ireland. He died in 1740.

His poems

Tickell contributed to the Spectator and Guardian. are graceful and tender, but are deficient in variety and force. The following is his best production.]

OF Leinster, famed for maidens fair,

Bright Lucy was the grace,

Nor e'er did Liffey's limpid stream

Reflect so sweet a face;

Till luckless love and pining care

Impair'd her rosy hue,

Her coral lips and damask cheeks,

And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh! have you seen a lily pale

When beating rains descend?

So droop'd the slow-consuming maid,

Her life now near its end.

By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains

Take heed, ye easy fair!

Of vengeance due to broken vows,

Ye perjured swains! beware.

Three times all in the dead of night

A bell was heard to ring,

And shrieking, at her window thrice

The raven flapp'd his wing.

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew

The solemn boding sound,

And thus in dying words bespoke
The virgins weeping round:

"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says I must not stay;

I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.

By a false heart and broken vows

In early youth I die:

Was I to blame because his bride

Was thrice as rich as I?

Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,

Vows due to me alone;

Nor thou, fond maid! receive his kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.

To-morrow in the church to wed,

Impatient both prepare ;

But know, fond maid! and know, false man!

That Lucy will be there.

Then bear my corse, my comrades! bear,

This bridegroom blithe to meet;

He in his wedding trim so gay,

I in my winding sheet."

Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts?

How were these nuptials kept?

The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,

And all the village wept.

Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell;

The damps of death bedew'd his brow;

He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride, ah! bride no more!

The varying crimson fled,

When stretch'd before her rival's corpse

She saw her husband dead.

Then to his Lucy's new-made grave
Convey'd by trembling swains,

One mould with her, beneath one sod,

For ever he remains.

Oft at this grave the constant hind

And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay and true-love knots
They deck the sacred green.

But, swain forsworn! whoe'er thou art,

This hallow'd spot forbear;

Remember Colin's dreadful fate,

And fear to meet him there.

HAWKING.

From "The Chase."

BY WILLIAM SOMERVILLE.

[WILLIAM SOMERVILLE was born in the year 1692, at the family seat at Edstone, in Warwickshire. He was educated at Winchester School, and afterwards at New College, Oxford. He passed the chief part of his life at the residence of his ancestors, and occupied himself with the duties of a country magistrate, the active life of a keen sportsman, and the cultivation of his poetic talents.

Somerville's "Chase" has always been a favourite with lovers of country life, and has often been reprinted.]

NEXT will I sing the valiant falcon's fame :
Aërial fights, where no confed'rate brute
Joins in the bloody fray; but bird with bird
Justs in mid-air. Lo! at his siege the hern,
Upon the bank of some small purling brook,
Observant stands to take his scaly prize,
Himself another's game. For mark behind
The wily falconer creeps: his grazing horse
Conceals the treacherous foe, and on his fist
Th' unhooded falcon sits: with eager eyes
She meditates her prey, and, in her wild
Conceit, already plumes the dying bird.
Up springs the hern, redoubling every stroke,
Conscious of danger, stretches far away,