Oft have I heard the fearfull tale
From Sue, and Roger of the vale,

On some long winter's night.

Deep in the dreary dismall cell,
Which seem'd and was ycleped hell,
This blear-eyed hag did hide:
Nine wicked elves, as legends sayne,
She chose to form her guardian trayne,
And kennel near her side.

Here screeching owls oft made their nest,
While wolves its craggy sides possest,
Night-howling thro' the rock:

No wholesome herb could here be found;
She blasted every plant around,
And blister'd every flock.

Her haggard face was foull to see;
Her mouth unmeet a mouth to bee;
Her eyne of deadly leer,

She nought devis'd, but neighbour's ill;
She wreak'd on all her wayward will,
And marr'd all goodly chear.

All in her prime, have poets sung,
No gaudy youth, gallant and young,
E'er blest her longing armes;
And hence arose her spight to vex,
And blast the youth of either sex,

By dint of hellish charms.

From Glaston came a lerned wight,
Full bent to marr her fell despight,

And well he did, I ween:

Sich mischief never had been known,

And, since his mickle lerninge shown,
Sich mischief ne'er has been.`

He chauntede out his godlie booke,
He crost the water, blest the brooke,

Then-pater noster done,—
The ghastly hag he sprinkled o'er;
When lo! where stood a hag before,
Now stood a ghastly stone.

Full well 'tis known adown the dale:
Tho' passing strange indeed the tale,
And doubtfull may appear;
I'm bold to say, there's never a one,
That has not seen the witch in stone,
With all her household gear.

But tho' this lernede clerke did well;
With grieved heart, alas! I tell,
She left this curse behind:

That Wokey-nymphs forsaken quite,
Tho' sense and beauty both unite,
Should find no leman kind.

For lo! even, as the fiend did say,
The sex have found it to this day,

That men are wondrous scant:
Here's beauty, wit, and sense combin'd,
With all that's good and virtuous join'd,

Yet hardly one gallant.

Shall then sich maids unpitied moane?
They might as well, like her, be stone,
And thus forsaken dwell.

Since Glaston now can boast no clerks;

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Come down from Oxenford, ye sparks,
And, oh! revoke the spell.

Yet stay-nor thus despond, ye fair;
Virtue's the gods' peculiar care;

I hear the gracious voice:

Your sex shall soon be blest agen,
We only wait to find sich men,
As best deserve your choice.

XV.

BRYAN AND PEREENE,

A WEST-INDIAN BALLAD,

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-is founded on a real fact, that happened in the island of St Christophers about the beginning of the present reign, (i.e. Geo. III.) The Editor owes the following stanzas to the friendship of Dr. James Grainger,1 who was an eminent physician in that island when this tragical incident happened, and died there much honoured and lamented in 1667. To this ingenious gentleman the public are indebted for the fine Ode on Solitude, printed in the IVth Vol. of Dodsley's Miscel. p. 229, in which are assembled some of the sublimest images in nature. The Reader will pardon the insertion of the first stanza here, for the sake of rectifying the two last lines, which were thus given by the Author:

O Solitude, romantic maid,

Whether by nodding towers you tread,

Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom,

Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,

Or climb the Andes' clifted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,

Or starting from your half-year's sleep
From Hecla view the thawing deer,

Or at the purple dawn of day

Tadmor's marble wastes survey, &c.

alluding to the account of Palmyra published by some ate ingenious travellers, and the manner in which they were struck at the first sight of those magnificent ruins by break of day.2

THE north-east wind did briskly blow,

The ship was safely moor'd;

Young Bryan thought the boat's-crew slow,

And so leapt over-board.

1 Author of a poem on the Culture of the Sugar-Cane, &c.- So in pag. 235. it should be, Turn'd her magic ray.

Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,
His heart long held in thrall;
And whoso his impatience blames,
I wot, ne'er lov'd at all.

A long long year, one month and day,

He dwelt on English land,

Nor once in thought or deed would stray,
Tho' ladies sought his hand.

For Bryan he was tall and strong,
Right blythsome roll'd his een,

Sweet was his voice whene'er he sung,
He scant had twenty seen.

But who the countless charms can draw,
That grac'd his mistress true;

Such charms the old world seldom saw,

Nor oft I ween the new.

Her raven hair plays round her neck,

Like tendrils of the vine;

Her cheeks red dewy rose buds deck,
Her eyes like diamonds shine.

Soon as his well-known ship she spied,
She cast her weeds away,

And to the palmy shore she hied,

All in her best array.

In sea-green silk so neatly clad,
She there impatient stood:

The crew with wonder saw the lad
Repell the foaming flood.

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Her hands a handkerchief display'd,
Which he at parting gave;
Well pleas'd the token he survey'd,
And manlier beat the wave.

Her fair companions one and all,
Rejoicing crowd the strand;

For now her lover swam in call,
And almost touch'd the land.

Then through the white surf did she haste,
To clasp her lovely swain;

When, ah! a shark bit through his waste:

His heart's blood died the main!

He shriek'd! his half sprang from the wave,

Streaming with purple gore,

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And soon it found a living grave,

And ah! was seen no more.

Now haste, now haste, ye maids, I pray,

Fetch water from the spring:

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She falls, she swoons, she dies away,
And soon her knell they ring.

Now each May morning round her tomb

Ye fair, fresh flowerets strew,

So may your lovers scape his doom,

Her hapless fate scape you.

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