GLYCERE.

In gala dress, and smiling! Sweet, What seek you in my green retreat? I gather flowers to deck my hair,— The village yonder claims the best, For lad and lass are thronging there To dance the sober sun to rest. Hark! hark! the rebec calls,—Glycere Again may foot it on the green; Her rivalry I need not fear, These flowers shall crown the Village Queen. You long have known this tranquil ground? It all seems strangely marred to me. Light heart! there sleeps beneath this mound The brightest of yon company. The flowers that should eclipse Glycere Are hers, poor child,—her grave is here!