The bride, who is she?
The Virgin holy,
Even Mary,
The Virgin Mother.
Now unto them
A Son is given
In Bethlehem,
A city small.

Now unto them
A Son is given
In Bethlehem,
A city small.
The bride, who is she?
The Virgin holy,
Even Mary,
The Virgin Mother.

On a humble house
Great light was shed,
The Angels sang,
And the Earth said:
The bride, who is she?
The Virgin holy,
Even Mary,
The Virgin Mother.

Jove from on high beheld the jarring world,
Shook the vast globe and round his thunder hurl'd;
" Mortals, " he cry'd, " attend a god's decree,
" Behold a youth commission'd you from me;
" Go, Day , " he said, " exert your utmost art,
" Improve the morals, and instruct the heart;
" Protect the Arts , and Sciences defend,
" And Navigation round the globe extend;
" Prove Nature's friend, and ev'ry vice suppress,
" But most your care — demands the British press;
" Freedom is held by Briton's sacred dear,

Live, beauteous Myrtle! ever priz'd by me;
The fairest flow'r shall never equal thee;
Thy verdant leaves from joyous L Y drew
A richer fragrance, and a softer hue:
May balmy gales thy drooping sweets expand,
And bless the gift of gentle C LARA 's hand.
By thee inspir'd, Remembrance shall impart
Her graceful smile and tenderness of heart:
On thee shall shine fair Fancy's golden ray,
And Truth shall guard thee on a wintry day.
Live, matchless Myrtle! lest on Bagshot's plain,
From scorching sun I kept thy sweets in vain;

Immortal, Shakespeare, would my Muse inspire
My feeble pen with a celestial fire,
Then would I lay it at thy heav'nly shrine,
For ev'ry charm of Poetry was thine;
Each passion form'd by thy prophetic skill,
Storm'd ev'ry heart, and conquer'd ev'ry will;
Ev'n Vice abash'd stood trembling at his feet,
When Shakespeare led sweet Virtue to her seat.
The fiend too conscious of her mighty foe,
Confounded sunk in the abyss below:
While the chaste goddess blushing at her fame,
In fate's fair page wrote down her Shakespeare's name:

Oh! the mystery
Of the Flannel Flower
You have given me!
Oh! the mystery!
From this happy hour
Two are one — and three!
Oh! the mystery
Of the Flannel Flower.

As t'other night a tar with gods was sat,
When Cook appear'd, the Briton's eyes were wet;
A landsman near him gave the tar a sneer:
" What! cry, Jack! damn me, come, no blubb'ring " here "
" Avast there, Tom, " the honest tar reply'd,
" Or smite my timbers else I'll thrash thy hide;
" See there, thou lubber, view yon gallant chief,
" With whom, God rest him! oft I've plough'd the " deep.
" Show me a foe, can make Jack Oakham fear. "
But here he sigh'd, and wip'd away a tear!

'Tis o'er, 'tis past, the melancholy bier
Has reach'd ere now the ne'er departing goal;
Intruding thoughts, reflection too severe,
Avaunt! nor raise new horrors in the soul.

Slow, very slow, the sad procession pass'd,
The tears of sorrow trembl'd in each eye;
Crowd press'd on crowd, in silence gaz'd their last,
Tear follow'd tear, and sigh re-echo'd sigh.

The ancient Abbey, clad in dread array,
Smil'd when the creeking hinges op'd the door;
The yawning vault receiv'd its darling prey,

As Celia lay reclin'd in sleep,
Within a fragrant grove,
Regardless of her crook and sheep,
She left her lambs to rove.

A Bee, ambitious of his pow'r,
Beheld the lovely fair;
And found thee, ah, too hapless hour!
When Delvill was not there.

To fix on Celia's damask cheek,
And print his fatal sting;
But ere he thought his slight to seek,
She seiz'd the tremb'ling thing.

With earnest look, and pain intense,
Yet anger she repress'd;
And mindless of his great offence,
The wanton Bee address'd.

Her garden was a tiny space,
But bright with many a simple flower,
I grew to love her withered face
When passing every sunset hour.

I knew her heart would smile to hear
A stranger praise her violet plots,
And tinkling fuchsia bells, and dear
Pansies and shy forget-me-nots.

Yet still I passed in silence, while
Her spirit flowered in that sweet place.
Alas! I never saw the smile
I might have kindled in her face.

Only the midnight stars dimly divine
The hidden sanctuary of my desire;
The dreaming earth trails far beneath the fire
That overflows this throbbing heart of mine;
Teach me the secrets of thine inmost shrine,
My gentle Saint of Passion — throned higher
Than highest praise of the celestial choir,
Thine every ecstasy a sacred sign.

Each tear — a tribute to the flying hour,
Each failing sigh — a sweetly answered prayer,
Each joy fulfilled — a freshly gathered flower
Flung on Love's ever fragrant altar, ere