No more thou com'ft with lover's fpeede, "Thy once-beloved bryde to fee; "But bee shee alive, or bee shee deade,

"I feare (fterne earle's) the fame to thee.

"Not fo the ufage I receiv'd,

"When happye in my father's halle; "No faithleffe hufbande then me griey'd, "No chilling feares did mee appall.

"I rofe up

with the chearful morne,

"No lark more blith, no flow'r more gaye; "And, like the birde that hauntes the thorne, "So merrylie fung the live-long daye.

"If that my beautye is but fmalle,

"Among court ladies all defpis'd; "Why didst thou rend it from that halle,

"Where (fcorneful earle) it well was priz'de?

"And when you first to mee made fuite,
"How fayre I was you oft woulde faye!
"And, proude of conqueft-pluck'd the fruite,
"Then lefte the bloffom to decaye.

"Yes, nowe neglected and defpis'd,

"The rofe is pale-the lilly's deade"But hee that once their charmes fo priz'd, "Is fure the cause those charms are fledde.

"For knowe, when fick'ning griefe doth preye
"And tender love's repay'd with scorne,
"The fweetest beautye will decaye-

"What flow'ret can endure the ftorme?

"At court I'm tolde is beauty's throne,
"Where everye lady's paffing rare;
"That eaftern flow'rs, that fhame the fun,
"Are not fo glowing, not foe fayre.

"Then, earle, why didst thou leave the bedds
"Where roses and where lillys vie,
"To feek a primrofe, whofe pale shades
"Muft ficken-when thofe gaudes are bye?

"'Mong rural beauties I was one,

"Among the fields wild flow'rs are faire; "Some countrye fwayne might mee have won, "And thoughte my beautie paffing rare.

"But, Leicester, (or I much am wronge) "Or tis not beautye lures thy vowes; "Rather ambition's gilded crowne

"Makes thee forget thy humble fpoufe.

"Then, Leicester, why, again I pleade,

"(The injur'd furely e may repyne,)

"Why didst thou wed a countrye mayde,

"When fome fayre princeffe might be thyne?

"Why

"Why didst thou praise my humble charmes,

"And, oh! then leave them to decaye?

"Why didst thou win me to thy armes,

"Then leave me to mourne the live-long daye

"The village maidens of the plaine
"Salute me lowly as they goe;
"Envious they marke my filken trayne,
"Nor thinke a counteffe can have woe.

"The fimple nymphs! they little knowe, "How farre more happy's their estate

"Howe farre leffe blefte am I than them?

Dailye to pyne and waste with care ! "Like the poore plante, that from its stem "Divided-feeles the chilling ayre.

"Nor (cruel earl!) can I enjoye

"The humble charmes of folitude; "Your minions proude my peace destroye, "By fullen frownes or pratings rude.

"Lafte nyghte, as fad I chanc'd to ftraye, "The village deathe-bell fmote my eare; "They wink'd afyde, and feem'd to faye, "Counteffe, prepare-thy end is neare.

"And nowe, while happye peafantes fleepe,

"Here I fet lonelye and forlorne; "No one to foothe mee as I weepe, "Save phylomel on yonder thorne.

"My fpirits flag-my hopes decaye-
"Still that dreade deathe-bell fmites my eare;
"And many a boding feems to faye,
"Countefs, prepare-thy end is neare."

Thus fore and fad that ladie griev'd,
In Cumnor Halle fo lone and dreare ;
And manye a heartefelte fighe fhee heav'd,
And let falle manye a bitter teare.

And ere the dawne of daye appear'd,
In Cumnor Hall fo lone and dreare,
Full manye a piercing fcreame was hearde,
And manye a crye of mortal feare.

The death-belle thrice was hearde to ring,
An aërial voyce was hearde to call,
And thrice the raven flapp'd its wyng
Arounde the tow'rs of Cumnor Hall,

The maftiffe howl'd at village doore,
The oaks were shatter'd on the greene;

Woe was the houre-for never more

That hapleffe counteffe e'er was feene.

And

And in that manor now no more

Is chearful feafte and sprightly balle;
For ever fince that drearye houre
Have fpirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maides, with fearful glance,
Avoid the antient moffgrowne walle ;
Nor ever leade the merrye dance,
Among the

groves of Cumnor Halle.

Full manye a travellor oft hath figh'd,
And penfive wepte the countefs' falle,
As wand'ring onwards they've efpied
The haunted tow'rs of Cumnor Halle.

X.

ARABELLA STUART,

Now first printed.

HERE London's tow're its turrets fhowe,
So ftatelye by the Thame's fyde,

WH

Faire Arabella, chyld of woe,

For manye a daye had fat and figh'd.