“Hush! hush!” cried KATE, for Heav’n’s sake be “As secret as the grave— “For LUBIN means to marry me— “And if you will not me betray, “I for your silence well will pay; “_Five pounds_ this moment you shall have.”— “I will have TEN!” the gypsy cries— The fearful, trembling girl complies. But, what was her dismay, to find That LUBIN was the gypsy bold; The cunning, fortune-telling hind Who had the artful story told— Who thus, was cur’d of jealous pain,— “_And got his_ TEN POUNDS _back again_! Thus, Fortune pays the LOVER bold! But, gentle Maids, should Fate Have any _secret_ yet untold,— Remember, _simple_ KATE! _POOR MARGUERITE_. Swift, o’er the wild and dreary waste A NUT-BROWN GIRL was seen to haste; Wide waving was her unbound hair, And sun-scorch’d was her bosom bare; For Summer’s noon had shed its beams While she lay wrapp’d in fev’rish dreams; While, on the wither’d hedge-row’s side, By turns she slept, by turns she cried, “Ah! where lies hid the balsam sweet, “To heal the wounds of MARGUERITE?” Dark was her large and sunken eye Which wildly gaz’d upon the sky; And swiftly down her freckled face The chilling dews began to pace: For she was lorn, and many a day, Had, all alone, been doom’d to stray, And, many a night, her bosom warm, Had throbb’d, beneath the pelting storm, And still she cried, “the rain falls sweet, “It bathes the wounds of MARGUERITE.” Her garments were by briars torn, And on them hung full many a thorn; A thistle crown, she mutt’ring twin’d, Now darted on,—now look’d behind— And here, and there, her arm was seen Bleeding the tatter’d folds between; Yet, on her breast she oft display’d A faded branch, that breast to shade: For though her senses were astray, She felt the burning beams of day: She felt the wintry blast of night, And smil’d to see the morning light, For then she cried, “I soon shall meet “The plighted love of MARGUERITE.” Across the waste of printless snow, All day the NUT-BROWN GIRL would go; And when the winter moon had shed Its pale beams on the mountain’s head, She on a broomy pillow lay Singing the lonely hours away; While the cold breath of dawnlight flew Across the fields of glitt’ring dew:— Swift o’er the frozen lake she past Unmindful of the driving blast, And then she cried “the air is sweet— “It fans the breast of MARGUERITE.”