©eatmefi of tf»e 
 
 THE MAN OF ROSS. 
 
 AND 
 
 THE GIPSY. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 FOR J.T. WARD and COMPANY, 
 3, Brcad-Street-Hill, C&e*£nd% 
 
 1 808. 
 
 [Id, 
 
THE MAN OF ROSS, 
 
 But all our praises why should Lor] 
 engross ? 
 
 Rise, honest Muse ! and sing the Man- 
 Ross : 
 
 Pleas'd vaga echoes through her wind 
 bounds, 
 
 And rapid severe hoarse applause resoun 
 Who hung with woods yon mounts 
 
 sultry brow ? 
 From the dry rock who bade the wat 
 
 flow ? 
 
 Not to the skies in useless columns 
 Or in proud falls- magnificently 3o«t 
 
3 
 
 jut clear and artless pouring through the 
 plain 
 
 Jealth to the sick, and solace to the swain* 
 Vhose causeway parts the vale with shady 
 rows ? 
 
 I hose seats the weary traveller repose ? 
 Vho taught that heav'n-directed spire to 
 
 Irise ? 
 The Man of Ross/ each lisping babe 
 replies. 
 
 Behold the market-place with poor o'er- 
 spread ! 
 
 Ike Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : 
 He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of 
 state, 
 
 ■ here age and want sit smiling at the 
 I gate; 
 
 inn portioned maids, apprenticed orphans 
 I blest, 
 
 |he young who labour, and the poor who 
 I rest 
 
4 
 
 Is any sick ? the Man of Ross relieve^ 
 Prescribes, attends, the med'eine mi 
 
 and gives. 
 Is there a variance ? enter but his door] 
 Baulk'd are the courts, and contest^ 
 
 more. 
 
 Despairing quacks with curses fled 
 place, 
 
 And vile attornies, now an useless racej 
 
 Thrice happy man! enabled to purs\ 
 What all so wish, but want the pow'r tot 
 Oh say! what sums that gen' rous lial 
 supply? 
 
 What mines to swell that bound] 
 charity ? 
 
 Of debts and taxes, wife and chiWij 
 clear, 
 
 This man possest— five hundred pouj 
 a year* 
 
5 
 
 lash? grandeur, blush ! proud courts 
 
 withdraw your blaze! 
 e little stars, hide your diminished rays ! 
 
 n d what! no monument, inscription, 
 stone ? 
 
 js race, his form, his name, almost un- 
 known ? 
 
 Hio builds a house to God, and not to 
 
 fame, 
 
 fill never mark the marble with his name: 
 lo, search it there, where to be born and 
 die 
 
 f rich and poor makes all the history : 
 Inough that virtue made the space be- 
 tween ; 
 
 ruv'd, by the ends of being, to have been* 
 
THE GIPSY. 
 
 The village, with the gloomy shad< 
 Of even-tide enibrowiVd, 
 
 Is still ; no more with rural songs 
 The peaceful cots resound. 
 
 A Gipsy, shivring with the cold, 
 And having lost her way, 
 
 Knocks at young William's lowly 
 And begs the night to stay. 
 
 William, who pity'd the distress'd, 
 And to the poor was kind, 
 
 Unhappily, had lately lost 
 His former peace of mind : 
 
w e t the benighted wanderer 
 He with a smile received ; 
 for those who were oppressed with woe 
 Ne'er left him unreliev'd. 
 
 He added fuel to his fire, 
 I The frugal board he spread : 
 |uid with a look of sad despair. 
 Unto the Gipsy said : 
 
 Know, welcome guest, my heart's a prey 
 ' To woe and deadly grief : 
 And much I dread I ne'er shall find 
 ' Or solace or relief. 
 
 The beauteous Anna, charming maid ! 
 
 * I love with tend' rest flame ; 
 I And late with purest passion warm'd, 
 
 * I to my Anna came. 
 
8 I 
 
 * Where near the river's munn Yin g stream! 
 « We usM so oft to meet ; 1 
 
 < And thought the envious moment pass j 
 6 As the swift waves, too fleet. I 
 
 « Anna, at length, with ling ring step I 
 * A clouded face arrived ; I 
 
 < To clothe her cheek with wonted smiles! 
 6 And sparkling joy I striv'd. I 
 
 * In vain I vow'd eternal love, 
 6 I try'd my skill in vain ; 
 
 e For Anna, with a constant frown, 
 6 Repulsed her -angry swain. 
 
 4 I try'd to clasp her to my breast, 
 
 * She tore herself away : 
 ''And never would she see my face 
 < From that unhappy day ! 
 
9 
 
 i Xow soothe a wretched lover's pain 
 
 < By thy foretelling pow'r ; 
 t And say, what was the unknown cause 
 
 6 Of that unlucky hour ? 
 
 < Tell me, if I may hope to live, 
 6 Or if I'm doom'd to die ?' — 
 
 The Gipsy heard th' afflicted youth* 
 And answer'd, with a sigh : 
 
 i I know thy Anna is unkind, 
 
 ' The reason too I know : 
 1 Thou art thyself alone the cause 
 
 4 Of her and thine own woe. 
 
 'When lately in the rural dance 5 
 4 Young Mary swoon'd away, 
 
 ' She fell into thy circling arms, 
 ' And in thy bosom lay. 
 
 L 
 
10 
 
 < Unmindful of thy Anna then, 
 
 < She's left by thee, to lead 
 * A happy rival to her home, 
 6 From off the sportive mead. 
 
 « She pensive spent the ling ring night, 
 6 Nor found repose or rest : 
 
 < For the sharp pangs of jealousy 
 
 « Disturbed her wayward breast, 
 
 c The following morning Emma came, 
 * And fanned the kindling fire ; 
 
 « She told her, Mary did thy heart 
 6 With anxious love inspire. 
 
 « Now she has dropt the cheering hope 
 « Of calling thee her own.' 
 
 The youth with horror turned his head. 
 And utter'd with a groan 
 
11 
 
 ( And does she think her swain untrue ? 
 
 < And will she not relent ? 
 < 1*11 hasten to her instantly, 
 
 « And she will soon repent — 
 
 < Or in her presence will I die, 
 
 < Reproach her with the deed : 
 
 < And know if she can drop a tear, 
 
 < To see her true-love bleed/ 
 
 He rose, with horror in his looks* 
 
 And fury in his eye ; 
 Resolv'd to see his Anna's face. 
 And in her sight to die. 
 
 The Gipsy started from her seat? 
 And threw off her disguise— 
 
 f T , ien, bath'd in tears, His Anna stooc 
 Before his wond'ring eyes ! 
 
12 
 
 ( Come to my arms, thou injur'd youth 
 6 Thy Anna's kind (she cried), 
 
 * Forgive, forgive my cruelty, 
 
 ' For now thy love I've tried.' 
 
 William replied, with voice of joy — 
 ' My Anna I forgive ; 
 
 * Thou call'st me from the arms of death, 
 
 6 Within thine own to live.' 
 
 AiTiss and Huntsman, 87, Bartholomew-Close