To foreign swains I'll pour my woe,
In foreign plains my tears shall flow:
By murm'ring stream and shady grove
Shall other echoes tell my love;
And richer flow'rs of vivid hue
Upon my tomb shall other maidens strew.

Adieu, dear Phillis! should'ft thou e'er
Some soft and plaintive story hear,
Of hapless youth who died for love,
Or all forlorn did banish'd rove,
O think of me! nor then deny
The gentle tribute of a sigh.

* * * * *

It may be objected that all these lovers are equally sad, though one is
a cheerful, the other a melancholy lover. It is true they are all equally
sad, for they are all equally in love, and in despair, when it is
impossible for them to be otherwise; but if I have pictured their farewell
complaints in such a way as to give you an idea that one lover is
naturally of a melancholy, one of a cheerful, and one of a proud temper, I
have done all that is intended.



THE STORM-BEAT MAID.

SOMEWHAT AFTER THE STYLE OF OUR OLD ENGLISH BALLADS.