force of truth, Have I long linger'd, while the milkmaid sung The tragic legend, till the woodland rung! That tale, so sad! which, still to memory dear, From its sweet source can call the sacred tear, And (lull'd to rest stern Reason's harsh control) Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. These hallow'd shades,—these trees that woo the wind, Recall its faintest features to my mind. A hundred passing years, with march sublime, Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, Reclusely dwelt the far famed Clifton Maid, The beauteous Margaret; for her each swain Confess'd in private his peculiar pain, In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair, Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. No more the Shepherd on the blooming mead Attuned to gaiety his artless reed, No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck His favourite wether's unpolluted neck, But listless, by yon bubbling stream reclined, He mix'd his sobbings with the passing wind, Bemoan'd his hapless love; or, boldly bent, Far from these smiling fields a rover went, O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam, A self-will'd exile from his native home.

Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain; Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs, The echoing vault responded to their vows, As here deep hidden from the glare of day, Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way.

Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name; 'T was there the blushing maid confessed her flame. Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie, When evening slumber'd on the western sky. That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare. Each bears mementos of the fated pair.

One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze With the fallen honours of the mourning trees, The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower. And waited long beyond the appointed hour, Yet Bateman came not;—o'er the woodland drear, Howling portentous did the winds career; And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods The fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods; The night was dark; as, now and then, the gale Paused for a moment—Margaret listen'd pale; But through the covert to her anxious ear No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. Strange fears now fill'd her breast,—she knew not why, She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh. She hears a noise,—'t is he,—he comes at last,— Alas! 't was but the gale which hurried past: But now she hears a quickening footstep sound, Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound; 'T is Bateman's self,—he springs into her arms, 'T is he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. "Yet why this silence?—I have waited 

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