THE VERSES FOUND IN BOTH. WELL'S POCKET-BOOK. THY hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright, As in that well-remember'd night When first thy mystic braid was wove, And first my Agnes whisper'd love., Since then how often hast thou press'd The torrid zone of this wild breast, Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell With the first sin which peopled hell, A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean, Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion! O, if such clime thou canst endure, I had not wander'd wild and wide, Look round thee, young Astolpho: Here's the place Which men (for being poor) are sent to starve in, Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease. Within these walls, stifled by damp and stench, Doth Hope's fair torch expire; and at the snuff, Ere yet 'tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and wayward, The desperate revelries of wild depair, Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to deeds That the poor captive would have died ere practised, Till bondage sunk his soul to his condition. Chap. XXII. The Prison, Act i. Sc. iii. FAR as the eye could reach no tree was seen, To the cataract's roar where the eagles reply, Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively And the lake her lone bosom expands to the sky. My banes are buried in yon kirk-yard CAULD is my bed, Lord Archibald, Sae far ayont the sea, And it is but my blithesome ghaist And sad my sleep of sorrow: But thine sall be as sad and cauld, My fause true-love! to-morrow. And weep ye not, my maidens free, Though death your mistress borrow; I'M Madge of the country, I'm Madge For he for whom I die to-day, of the town, And I'm Madge of the lad I am blithest to own Shall die for me to-morrow. PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Singing so rarely. But has not a heart half so lightsome Sweet Robin sits on the bush, as mine. |