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But ever let the snow-wing'd dove
Of sacred faith around him move;
Let honour be his constant friend,
And secrecy his steps attend.

ANONYMOUS.

A RONDEAU.

LET prudence point her thorny way,
Let knaves invent and fools obey,
Let cowards bow to reason's shrine;
I'll be mad with love and wine.

Let the pedant proud disdain
Wit and humour's sparkling vein,
His sluggish feeling never caught
By one eccentric glowing thought;
Be the wreath of fancy mine,
I'll be mad with love and wine.
Let the envious hypocrite
False and musty saws indite;
Let the idle moralist

Mirth's entrancing sway resist;
Be the course of pleasure mine,
I'll be mad with love and wine.
Love to peace Ambition charms,
Wine the care-chill'd bosom warms;
And when its powers no more inspire
Vivid wit's responsive fire;

When the jovial hours are run,
And the laugh of spirit done;

And silence with his blinking eye

Mocks the parted revelry;

Her witching dreams delight shall shed,
And yielding beauty crown my bed.

ANONYMOUS.

PLEASURE AND DESIRE.

IN yonder bower lies Pleasure sleeping,
And near him mourns a blooming maid!
He will not wake, and she sits weeping;
When lo! a stranger proffers aid:
His hurried step, his glance of fire,
The god of wishes wild declare!
'Fond Pleasure, wake!' exclaims Desire,
And Pleasure wakes to bless the fair.

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But soon the nymph, in evil hour,

Desire asleep is doom'd to view;

Try, Pleasure, try,' she cries,' your power, And wake Desire, as he woke you.' Fond girl, thy prayer exceeds all measure, Distinct must each his province keep: Desire must still awaken Pleasure, And Pleasure lull Desire to sleep.

M. G. LEWIS.

SONG.

I'VE roam'd through many a weary round,

I've wander'd east and west; Pleasure in every clime I found,

But sought in vain for rest.

While Glory sighs for other spheres,
I feel that one's too wide,

And think the home which love endears
Worth all the world beside.

The needle thus, too rudely moved,
Wanders unconscious where,

Till having found the place it loved,
It trembling settles there.

T. MOORE.

SONG. THE MAID OF CATMOSE.

DID you see my fair one ever

In her vernal morn of love?

She was sweet as blooming heather,
Soft as turtle of the grove.

Oh! when first my eyes beheld her,
Blushing in her early teens!
Rose nor lily e'er excell'd her,
Though the garden's rival queens.

Budding like the Paphian myrtle,
Softly swell'd her virgin breast:
There beneath the modest kirtle
Love yet slumber'd in his nest.

Mild her eyebeam, sweetly playing,
Like the morning's tender light;
Through the silken lashes straying,
Shafts resistless wing'd their flight.

One sly corner, all so bright in,
Lo! a bevel'd vein appear.

Love had stolen his grandsire's lightning,
And conceal'd the plunder here.

Such my fair one, brightly glowing,
Blossom'd in her vernal hour.
Time, each mental charm bestowing,
Give the fruit, but spare the flower.

THELWALL.

FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND TRUTH. WHEN Friendship, Love, and Truth abound Among a band of brothers,

The cup of joy goes gaily round-
Each shares the bliss of others :
Sweet roses grace the thorny way
Along this vale of sorrow;

The flowers that shed their leaves to-day
Shall bloom again to-morrow:

How grand in age, how fair in youth
Are holy Friendship, Love, and Truth!

On halcyon wings our moments pass,
Life's cruel cares beguiling;

Old Time lays down his sithe and glass,
In gay good humour smiling:
With ermine beard and forelock gray
His reverend front adorning,
He looks like Winter turn'd to May,
Night soften'd into morning!
How grand in age, how fair in youth
Are holy Friendship, Love, and Truth!
From those delightful fountains flow
Ambrosial rills of pleasure:
Can man desire, can heaven bestow
A more resplendent treasure?
Adorn'd with gems so richly bright,
We'll form a constellation,

Where every star, with modest light,
Shall gild his proper station.
How grand in age, how fair in youth
Are holy Friendship, Love, and Truth!

MONTGOMERY.

THE SOLDIER.

WHAT dreaming drone was ever bless'd

By thinking of the morrow? To-day be mine, I leave the rest

To all the fools of sorrow:

Give me the mind that mocks at care;
The heart, its own defender;
The spirits that are light as air,
And never beat surrender.

On comes the foe,-to arms-to arms,-
We meet, 'tis death or glory :
'Tis victory in all her charms,
Or fame in Britain's story.
Dear native land! thy fortunes frown,
And ruffians would enslave thee;
Thou land of honour and renown,
Who would not die to save thee?

'Tis you, 'tis I that meet the ball;
And me it better pleases

In battle with the brave to fall
Than die of cold diseases;
Than drivel on in elbow chair,
With saws and tales unheeded,
A tottering thing of ache and care,
Nor longer loved nor needed.
But thou, dark is thy flowing hair,
Thine eye with fire is streaming;
And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air,
Health sits in triumph beaming.

Then, brother soldier, fill the wine,
Fill high the wine to beauty;

Love, friendship, honour, all are thine,
Thy country and thy duty.

W. SMYTH.

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