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The merchant robb'd of pleasure,

Sees tempests in despair ;
But what's the loss of treasure,

To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on,

Where gold and diamonds grow, You'd find a richer maiden,

But none that loves you so.

How can they say that nature

Has nothing made in vain ; Why then, beneath the water,

Should hideous rocks remain ?

No eyes the rocks discover

That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover,

And leave the maid to weep.

All melancholy lying,

Thus wail'd she for her dear; Repaid each blast with sighing,

Each billow wiih a tear.

When o'er the white wave stooping

His floating corpse she spied ; Then, like a lily drooping,

She bow'd her head, and died.



[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.

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

His poems

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."


She spoke; she died. Her corpse was borne

The bridegroom blithe to meet ; He in his wedding trim so gay,

She in her winding sheet.


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