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Then breathing a groan o'er his clay,

| A stream so clear as Rocnabad, She hung on his tomb-stone, and died. A bower so sweet as Mosellay,

O! when these fair, perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secrei haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display,
Each glauce my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destin'd prey.

$ 9. Song. Gay. 'Twas when the seas were roaring

With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel Jay deploring,

All on a rock reclin'd.
Wide o'er the foaming billows

She cast a wistful look ;
Her head was crown'd with willows

That trembled o'er the brook.

In vain with love our bosoms glow:
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,
New lustre to those charms in part?
Can cheeks where living roses blow,
Where Nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrow'd gloss of art?

Speak not of fate:-ah! change the theme,
And talk of odors, talk of wine,
Talk of the flowers that round us bloom:
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream!
To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.

Twelve months are gone and over,

And nine long tedious days; Why didst thou, rent'rous lover,

Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,

And let my lover rest:
Ah! what's thy troubled motion

To that within my breast !
The merchant, robb'd of pleasure,

Views tempests in despair ;.
But what's the loss of treasure

To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on

Where gold and di'monds grow,
You'll find a richer maiden,

But none that loves you so.

Beauty has such resistless power,
That e'en the chaste Egyptian dame
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy;
For her how fatal was the bour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!

But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear :
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders sage :)
While music charms the ravish'd ear;
While sparkling cups delight our ear;
Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age.

How can they say that nature

Has nothing made in vain ? Why then beneath the water

Do hideous rocks remain ? No eyes these rocks discover,

That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wand'ring lover,

And leave the maid to weep.

What cruel answer have I heard !
And yet, by heaven, I love thee still :
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?
Yet say, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which nought but drops of honey sip?

All melancholy lying,

Thus wail'd she for her dear;
Repaid each blast with sighing,

Each billow with a tear :
When, o'er the white wave stooping,

His floating corpse she spied ;
Then, like a lily drooping,

She bow'd her head, and died.

Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,
Like orient pearls at random strung:
Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say;
But (! far sweeter, if they please
The nymph for whom these notes are sung.

§ 10. A Persian Song of Ilafiz.

SIR WILLIAM JONES. Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charın my sight,

§ 11. Song. And bid these arms thy neck en fold; That rosy cheek, that lily hand,

Hard by the hall, our master's house, Would give thy poet more delight

Where Mersey flows to meet the main; Than als Bocara's vaunted gold,

Where woods, and winds, and waves dispose Than all the gems of Samarcand.

A lover to complain; Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,

With arms across, along the strand And bid thy pensive heart be glad,

Poor Lycon walkd, and hung his head; Whate'er the frowning zealots say:

Viewing the footsteps in the sand, Tell them their Eden cannot show

| Which a bright nymph had made.

The tide, said he, will soon erase

But curse on party's hateful strife, The marks so lightly here imprest;

That led the favor'd youth astray! But time or tide will ne'er deface

The day the rebel clans appear'd, Her image in my breast.

O had he never seen that day! Am I some savage beast of prey,

| Their colors and their sash he wore, Am I some horrid monster grown,

And in that fatal dress was found; That thus she flies so swift away,

And now he must that death endure Or meets me with a frown?

Which gires the brave the keepest wound. That bosom soft, that lily skin

How pale was then his true-love's cheek, (Trust not the fairest outside show !)

When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! Contains a marble heart within,

For never yet did Alpine snows
A rock hid under snow.

So pale, or yet so chill appear.
Ah me! the flints and pebbles wound With faltering voice she weeping said:
Her tender feet, from whence there fell

O Dawson, monarch of my heart, Those criinson drops which stain the ground, Think not thy death shall end our loves, And beautify each shell.

For thou and I will never part. Ah! fair one, moderate thy flight,

“ Yet might sweet mercy find a place, I will no more in vain pursue,

And bring relief to Jemmy's woes, But take my leave for a long night;

O George! without a pray'r for thee Adieu ! lov'd maid, adieu.

My orisons should never close. With that he took a running leap,

“ The gracious prince that gave him life He took a Lover's Leap indeed,

Would crown a never-dying flame; And plung'd into the sounding deep,

And every tender babe I bore Where hungry fishes feed.

Should learn to lisp the giver's name. The melancholy hern stalks by;

“But tho', dear youth, thou shouldst be dragg'd Around the squalling sea-gulls yell;

To yonder ignominious tree; Aloft the croaking ravens fly,

Thou shalt not want a faithful friend And toll his funeral bell.

To share thy bitter fate with thee." The waters roll above his head,

O then her mourning-coach was callid, The billows toss it o'er and o'er,

The sledge mov'd slowly on before; His ivory bones lie scattered,

Though borne in his triumphal car,
And whiten all the shore.

She had not lov'd her favorite more.
She follow'd him, prepar’d to view

The terrible behests of law;

And the last scene of Jemmy's woes $ 12. Song. Jemmy Dawson". Shenstone.

With calm and steadfast eye she saw. Come listen to my mournful tale,

Distorted was that blooming face, Ye tender hearts and lovers dear;

Which she had fondly lov'd so long; Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,

And stifled was that tuneful breath, Nor will you blush to shed a tear.

Which in her praise had sweetly sung: And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid !

And severed was that beauteous neck, Do thou a pensive ear incline;

Round which her arms had fondly clos’d; For thou canst weep at every woe,

And mangled was the beauteous breast And pity every plaint but mine.

On which her love-sick head repos’d;

And ravish'd was that constant heart,
Young Dawson was a gallant youth,
A brighter never trod the plain;

She did to every heart prefer;
And well he lov'd one charming maid,

For, though it could its king forget,

'Twas true and loyal still to her. And dearly was he lov'd again. One tender maid she lov'd him dear,

Amid those unrelenting flames Of gentle blood the damsel came:

She bore this constant heart to see ; And faultless was her beauteous form,

But when 'twas moulder'd into dust, And spotless was her virgin fame.

“ Now, now," she cried, “I follow thee! • Captain James Dawson, the amiable and unfortunate subject of these beautiful Stanzas, was one of the eight officers belonging to the Manchester regiment of volunteers, in the service of the young Chevalier, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington-Common, in 1746 : and this Ballad, written about the time, is founded on a remarkable circumstance which actually happened at his execution. Just before his death he wrote a song on his own misfortunes, which is supposed to be still extant.

run.

" My death, my death, alone can show

$ 14. Song. Sir John SUCKLING. The pure and lasting love I bore :

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Accept, o Heaven ! of woes like ours,

Pry'thee why so pale? And let us, let us weep no more.”

Will, when looking well can't move her, The dismal scene was o'er and past,

Looking ill prevail ? The lover's mournful hearse retir'd;

Pr'ythee why so pale? The maid threw back her languid head,

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? And, sighing forth his name, expir'd !

Prythee why so mute? Though justice ever must prevail,

Will, when speaking well can't win her, The tear my Kitty sheds is due;

Saying nothing do't? For seldom shall she hear a tale

Pr’ythee why so mute? So sad, so tender, and so true.

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love, $ 13. Song. A Morning Piece: or, a Hymn Nothing can make her ; for the Hay-makers. SMART.

The devil take her. Brusk chaunticleer his matins had begun,

And broke the silence of the night : And thrice he call'd aloud the tardy sun, $ 15. Song. Humphrey Gublin's Courtskip. And thrice he hail'd the dawn's ambiguous

A courting I went to my love, light;

Who is sweeter than roses in May; Back to their graves the fear-begotten phantoms

And when I came to her, by Jove,

The devil a word could I say,
Strong Labourgot up with his pipe in his mouth,

I walk'd with her into the garden,
And stóutly strode over the dale;
He lent new perfume to the breath of the south,

There fully intending to woo her ;
On his back hung his wallet and Aail.

But may I be ne'er worth a farthing,

If of love I said any thing to her. Behind him came Health from her cottage of thatch,

I clasp'd her hand close to my breast, Where never physician had lifted the latch.

While my heart was as light as a feather ;

Yet nothing I said, I protest, First of the village Colin was awake,

But," Madam, 'uis very fine weather." And thus he sung, reclining on his rake:

To an arbor I did her altend,
Now the rural Graces three

She ask'd me to come and sit by her;
Dance beneath yon maple-tree !

I crept to the furthermost end,
First the vestal Virtue, known

For I was afraid to come nigh her.
By her adamantine zone;
Next to her, in rosy pride,

I ask'd her which way was the wind,
Sweet Society, the bride;

For I thought in some talk we must enter :
Last Honesty, full seemly drest

“ Why, Sır, (she answer'd, and grion de) In her cleanly homespun vest.

Have you just sent your wits for a venture ?"

Then I follow'd her into her house, The abbey-bells, in wak’ning rounds,

There I vow'd I iny passion would try; The warning peal have given ;

But there I was still as a mouse;
And pious Gratitude resounds

O what a dull booby was I!
Her morning hymn to Heaven.
All nature wakes; the birds unlock their throats,
And mock the shepherd's rustic notes.
All alive o'er the lawn,

$16. Song. The Despairing Lover. WALSH.
Full glad of the dawn,
The little lambkins play:

Distracted with care, Sylvia and Sol arise, and all is day!

For Phillis the fair,

Since nothing could more her,
Come, my mates, let us work,

Poor Damon, her lover,
And all hands to the fork,

Resolves in despair
While the sun shines, our haycacks to make; No longer to languish,
So fine is the day,

Nor bear so much anguish;
And so fragrant the hay,

But, mad with his love,
That the meadow's as blithe as the wake!

To a precipice goes,

Where a leap from above
Our voice let us raise

Would soon finish his woes.
In Phoebus's praise :
Inspir'd by so glorious a theme,

When, in rage, he came iher,
Our musical words

Beholding how steep
Shall be join'd by the birds,

The sides did appear,
And we'll dance to the tune of the strean! I And the bottom how deep;

His torments projecting,

$18. Song. Moore.
And sadly reflecting,
That a lover forsaken,

When Damon languish'd at my feet,
A new love may get;

And I believ'd him true,
But a neck, when once broken,

The moments of delight how sweet!
Can never be set :

But oh! how swist they flew]
And that he could die

The sunny hill, the flow'ry vale,
Whenever he would ;

The garden, and the grove,
But that he could live

Have echo'd to his ardent tale,
But as long as he could;

And yows of endless love.
How grievous soever

The conquest gain'd, he left his prize,
The torment might grow,

He left her to complain;
He scorn'd to endeavour

To talk of joy with weeping ayes,
To finish it so.
But bold, unconcern'd,

And measure time by pain.
At thoughts of the pain,

But Heaven will take the mourner's part,
He calmly return'd

In pity to despair;
To his cottage again.

And the last sigh that rends the heart

Shall waft the spirit there. $ 17. Song A coBeLeR there was, and he livid in a stall Which serv'd him for parlour, for kitchen, and hall;

§ 19. Song. The Lass of the Hill. No coin in his pocket, no care in his pate,

Miss Mary Joxes. No ambition had he, nor duns at his gate.

On the brow of a hill a young shepherdess Derry down, down, down, derry down.

dwelt, Contented he work’d, and he thought himself Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er felt: happy

For a few sober maxims still ran in her head, If at night he could purchase a jug of brown That 'twas better to earn ere she ate her browa nappy :

bread; How he'd laugh then, and whistle, and sing That to rise with the lark was conducive to too, most sweet!

[meet! health, Saying, Just to a hair I have made both ends | And to folks in a cottage, contentment was Derry down, down, &c.

wealth. But love, the disturber of high and of low, Now young Roger, who liv'd in the valley That shoots at the peasant as well as the beau;

below, He shot the poor cobbler quite thro' the heart; Who at church and at market was reckon'd a I wish he had hit some more ignoble part.

beau, Derry down, down, &c.

| Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail, It was from a cellar this archer did play,

And would rest on his pitchfork to tell her his tale:

[heart; Where a buxom young damsel continually lay; Her eyes shone só bright when she rose every

i With his winning behaviour he melted her day,

But, quite artless herself, she suspected no art. That she shot the poor cobbler quite over the He had sighd, and protested, had kneelid and

way. Derry down, down, &c.

And could lie with the grandeur and air of a He sung her love-songs as he sat at his work,

lord : But she was as hard as a Jew or a Turk: Then her eyes he commended in language well Whenever he spoke she would Aounce and dress'd, would fleer,

And enlargd on the torments that troubled his Which put the poor cobbler quite into despair, breast; Derry down, down, &c.

Till his sighs and his tears had so wrought on He took up his awl that he had in the world,

her mind, And to make away with himself was resolv'd; That

was resolu'd: That in downright compassion to love she inHe pierced through his body instead of the sole,

clin'd. So the cobbler he died, and the bell it did toll, But as soon as he melted the ice of her breast, Derry down, down, &c.

All the flames of his love in a moment decreas'd; And now, in good will, I advise, as a friend, And at noon he goes flaunting all over the vale, All cobblers take warning by this cobbler's end: Where he boasts of his conquest to Susan and Keep your hearts out of love, for we find, by Nell: what's past,

Though he sees her but seldom, he's always That love brings us all to an end at the last,

in haste, Derry down, down, down, derry down. I And, if ever he mentions her, makes her his jest.

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All the day she goes sighing, and hanging her $21. Song. Parnell. - head,

My days have been so wondrous free, And her thoughts are so pester’d, she scarce

The little birds that fly earns her bread;

With careless ease from iree to tree The whole village cries shame, when a-milking

Were but as bless'd as I.

W she goes, That so little affection is shown to the cows : | Ask gliding waters, if a tear But she heeds not their railing, e'en let them Of mine increas'd their stream? rail on,

Or ask the Aying gales, if e'er And a fig for the cows now her sweetheart is I lent a sigh to them? gone.

But now my former days retire, Now beware, ye young virgins of Britain's gay And I'm by beauty caught; isle,

The tender chains of sweet desire How ye yield up a heart to a look or a smile : Are fix'd upon my thought. For Cupid is ariful, and virgins are frail,

An eager hope within my breast And you 'll find a false Roger in every vale,

Does every doubt controul; Who to court you, and tempt you, will try all | And lovely Nancy stands confest his skill;

The fav’rite of my soul.
But remember The Lass on the brow of the
Hill.

Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines,

Ye swains that haunt the grove,

Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds, $ 20. Song. Barton Booth, Esq.

Ye close retreats of love!
Sweet are the charms of her I love,

With all of nature, all of art,
More fragrant than the damask rose,
Soft as the down of turile dove,

Assist the dear design;
Gentle as air when Zephyr blows,

( teach a young, unpractis'd heart, Refreshing as descending rains

To make her ever mine.
To sun-burnt climes and thirsty plains. The very thought of change I hate
True as the needle to the pole,

As nuch as of despair;
Or“ as the dial to the sun;"

Nor ever covet to be great, Constant as gliding waters roll,

Unless it be for her. Whose swelling tides obey the moon!

'Tis true, the passion in my mind From ev'ry other charmer free,

Is mix'd with soft distress : My life and love shall follow thee.

Yet, while the fair I love is kind,
The lamb the flow'ry thyme devours,

I cannot wish it less.
The dam the tender kid pursues;
Sweet Philoniel, in shady bow'rs

Of verdant spring, her note renews;
All follow what they most admire,

$ 22. Song. May Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen. As I pursue my soul's desire.

CUNNINGNAM. Nature must change her beauteous face, | The silver moon's enamor'd beain And vary as the seasons rise ;

Steals softly through the night,
As winter to the spring gives place,

To wanton with the winding stream,
Summer th' approach of autumn flies; And kiss reflected light.
No change in love the seasons bring,

To beds of state go, balmy sleep,
Love only knows perpetual spring.

("Tis where you've seldom been) Devouring time, with stealing pace,

| May's vigil while the shepherds keep Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow;

With Kate of Aberdeen.
And marble tow'rs, and gates of brass, Upon the green the virgins wait,
In his rude march he levels low :

In rosy chaplets gay,
But time destroying far and wide,

Till morn unbar her golden gate, Love from the soul can ne'er divide.

And give the promis'd May.
Death only with his cruel dart

Methinks I hear the maids declare
The gentle godbead can remove;

The promis'd May, when seen,
And drive him from the bleeding heart,

Not half so fragrant, half so fair
To mingle with the bless'd above;

As Kate of Aberdeen.
Where known to all his kindred train, Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
He finds a lasting rest from pain.

We'll rouse the nodding grore;
Love, and his sister fair, the Soul,

The nested birds shall raise their throats,
Twin-born, froin heaven together came; And hail the maid I love.
Love will the universe control,

And see, the matin lark mistakes,
When dying seasons lose their name;

He quits the tufted green :
Divine abodes shall own his pow'r,

Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, When time and death shall be no more.

"Tis Kate of Aberdeen!

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