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What passion cannot Music raise and quell!
But, oh! what art can teach,
Orpheus could lead the savage race,
Sequacious of the Lyre;
As from the pow'r of sacred lays
THE IVY. How yonder ivy courts the oak,
And clips it with a false embrace ! So I abide a wanton's yoke,
And yield me to a smiling face. And both our deaths will prove, I
guess, The triumph of unthankfulness.
How fain the tree would swell its rind !
But, vainly trying, it decays.
So wastes the vigour of my days.
My kindly pity first did move; And, in a little moment's space,
This pity did engender love. And now my death must prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. For now she rules me with her look,
And round me winds her harlot chain; Whilst, by a strange enchantment struck,
My nobler will recoils in vain. And soon my death will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness. But, had the oak denied its shade,
The weed had trail'd in dust below; And she, had I her suit gainsaid,
Might still have pin'd in want and woe : Now, both our deaths will prove, I guess, The triumph of unthankfulness
Published by W. SUTTABY, CROSBY and Co. and SCATCHERD and LETTERMAN,
Corrall, Printer, Charing Cross.