Now on the utmost brink they stand, She seized Don Raymond by the hand, A whirling blast from off the stream Don Raymond gave a hideous scream, Then down his limbs, in strange affright, Cold dews to pour begun ; No Agnes met his shudd'ring sight, -"God! .'Tis the Bleeding Nun!"— A form of more than mortal size, All ghastly, pale, and dead, Fix'd on the Knight her livid eyes, And thus the Spectre said. —“Oh Raymond! Raymond! I am thine, "And leave thee will I never ; "I am thine, and thou art mine, Don Raymond shrieks, he faints; the blood Ran cold in every vein, He sank into the roaring flood, And never rose again! No. LIII. THE MAID OF THE MOOR, OR THE WATER FIENDS. G. COLMAN, JUN. This Tale, which is unavoidably misplaced, should have formed No. XXXVI. On a wild moor, all brown and bleak, Where broods the heath frequenting growse, There stood a tenement antique, Lord Hoppergollop's country house. Here silence reign'd with lips of glue, And undisturb'd maintain'd her law; Save when the owl, cried-" whoo! whoo! whoo!" Or the hoarse crow, croak'd-" caw! caw! caw!" Neglected mansion! for 'tis said, Whene'er the snow came feathering down, Four barbed steeds, from the Bull's-head, Carried thy master up to town. Weak Hoppergollop! Lords may moan, On two small rattling bits of bone, Swift whirl the wheels,-he's gone ;-a Rose Remains behind, whose virgin look, Unseen, must blush in wint'ry snows; Sweet beauteous blossom! 'twas the Cook! A bolder, far, than my weak note, Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand: Eels might be proud to lose their coat, If skinn'd by Molly Dumpling's hand. Long had the fair one sat alone, Had none remain'd, save only she; She by herself had been, if one Had not been left, for company. 'Twas a tall youth, whose cheek's clear hue Was tinged with health and manly toil; Cabbage he sow'd, and when it He always cut it off to boil. grew, Oft would he cry, -"Delve, delve the hole! "And prune the tree, and trim the root! "And stick the wig upon the pole, "To scare the sparrows from the fruit!". A small mute favourite by day Follow'd his steps; where'er he wheels Ah man the brute creation see, Are found in every bob-tail cur. Hard toil'd the youth, so fresh and strong, While Bob-tail in his face would look, And mark'd his master troll the song, "Sweet Molly Dumpling! O, thou Cook!”. For thus he sung: while Cupid smiled, |