Then breathing a groan o'er his clay, She hung on his tomb-stone, and died.

$9. Song. GAY.

"TWAS when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind,
A damsel lay 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.

Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days;
Why didst thou, vent'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.

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.

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.

§ 10. A Persian Song of Hafiz.
SIR WILLIAM JONES.

SWEET maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight,

And bid these arms thy neck enfold;
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight

Than all Bocara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say:
Tell them their Eden cannot show

A stream so clear as Rocnabad, A bower so sweet as Mosellay.

O! when these fair, perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret 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.

In vain with love our bosoms glow:
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,
New lustre to those charms impart?
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.

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 hour,
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.

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?

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 O! far sweeter, if they please

The nymph for whom these notes are sung.

§ 11. Song.

HARD by the hall, our master's house, Where Mersey flows to meet the main; Where woods, and winds, and waves dispose A lover to complain;

With arms across, along the strand

Poor Lycon walk'd, and hung his head; Viewing the footsteps in the sand, Which a bright nymph had made.

The tide, said he, will soon erase

The marks so lightly here imprest;
But time or tide will ne'er deface
Her image in my breast.

Am I some savage beast of prey,

Am I some horrid monster grown, That thus she flies so swift away,

Or meets me with a frown?

That bosom soft, that lily skin

(Trust not the fairest outside show!) Contains a marble heart within,

A rock hid under snow.

Ah me! the flints and pebbles wound

Her tender feet, from whence there fell Those crimson drops which stain the ground, And beautify each shell.

Ah! fair one, moderate thy flight,

I will no more in vain pursue, But take my leave for a long night; Adieu! lov'd maid, adieu.

With that he took a running leap,

He took a Lover's Leap indeed,
And plung'd into the sounding deep,
Where hungry fishes feed.

The melancholy hern stalks by;
Around the squalling sea-gulls yell;
Aloft the croaking ravens fly,
And toll his funeral bell.

The waters roll above his head,
The billows toss it o'er and o'er,
His ivory bones lie scattered,
And whiten all the shore.

§12. Song. Jemmy Dawson*. SHENSTONE.

COME listen to my mournful tale,

Ye tender hearts and lovers dear; Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh, Nor will you blush to shed a tear. And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid! Do thou a pensive ear incline; For thou canst weep at every woe, And pity every plaint but mine.

Young Dawson was a gallant youth,
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov'd again.
One tender maid she lov'd him dear,
Of gentle blood the damsel came:
And faultless was her beauteous form,
And spotless was her virgin fame.

But curse on party's hateful strife, That led the favor'd youth astray! The day the rebel clans appear'd,

O had he never seen that day!

Their colors and their sash he wore,

And in that fatal dress was found; And now he must that death endure

Which gives the brave the keenest wound. How pale was then his true-love's cheek,

When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows

So pale, or yet so chill appear.
With faltering voice she weeping said:
"O Dawson, monarch of my heart,
Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.

"Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes,
O George! without a pray'r for thee
My orisons should never close.

"The gracious prince that gave him life
Would crown a never-dying flame;
And every tender babe I bore

Should learn to lisp the giver's name.
"But tho', dear youth, thou shouldst be dragg'd
To yonder ignominious tree;
Thou shalt not want a faithful friend
To share thy bitter fate with thee."
O then her mourning-coach was call'd,
The sledge mov'd slowly on before;
Though borne in his triumphal car,
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
With calm and steadfast eye she saw.

Distorted was that blooming face,

Which she had fondly lov'd so long;
And stifled was that tuneful breath,
Which in her praise had sweetly sung:
And severed was that beauteous neck,
Round which her arms had fondly clos'd;
And mangled was the beauteous breast

On which her love-sick head repos'd;
And ravish'd was that constant heart,
She did to every heart prefer;
For, though it could its king forget,
'Twas true and loyal still to her.

Amid those unrelenting flames

She bore this constant heart to see; But when 'twas moulder'd into dust, "Now, now," she cried, "I follow thee!

My death, my death, alone can show The pure and lasting love I bore: Accept, O Heaven! of woes like ours, And let us, let us weep no more."

The dismal scene was o'er and past,

The lover's mournful hearse retir'd; The maid threw back her languid head, And, sighing forth his name, expir'd! Though justice ever must prevail,

The tear my Kitty sheds is due;
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So sad, so tender, and so true.

run.

Strong Labour got up with his pipe in his mouth,
And stoutly strode over the dale;
He lent new perfume to the breath of the south,
On his back hung his wallet and flail.
Behind him came Health from her cottage of
thatch,

Where never physician had lifted the latch.

First of the village Colin was awake,
And thus he sung, reclining on his rake:
Now the rural Graces three
Dance beneath yon maple-tree!
First the vestal Virtue, known
By her adamantine zone;
Next to her, in rosy pride,
Sweet Society, the bride;
Last Honesty, full seemly drest
In her cleanly homespun vest.

The abbey-bells, in wak'ning rounds,
The warning peal have given;

And pious Gratitude resounds

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,

Full glad of the dawn,

The little lambkins play:

Sylvia and Sol arise, and all is day!

Come, my mates, let us work,

And all hands to the fork,

While the sun shines, our haycocks to make;

So fine is the day,

And so fragrant the hay,

That the meadow's as blithe as the wake!

Our voice let us raise

In Phoebus's praise:

Inspir'd by so glorious a theme,

Our musical words

Shall be join'd by the birds,

And we'll dance to the tune of the stream!

§ 14. Song. Sir JOHN SUCKling, WHY SO pale and wan, fond loyer? Pry'thee why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail?

Pr'ythee why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Pr'ythee why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?

Pr'ythee why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her;
The devil take her.

§ 15. Song. Humphrey Gubbin's Courtship. A COURTING I went to my love,

And when I came to her, by Jove,
Who is sweeter than roses in May;
The devil a word could I say.

I

walk'd with her into the garden, But may I be ne'er worth a farthing, There fully intending to woo her; If of love I said any thing to her.

I clasp'd her hand close to my breast,

While my heart was as light as a feather; Yet nothing I said, I protest,

But-" Madam, 'tis very fine weather." To an arbor I did her attend,

She ask'd me to come and sit by her; I crept to the furthermost end,

For I was afraid to come nigh her.

I ask'd her which way was the wind,

For I thought in some talk we must enter: "Why, Sir, (she answer'd, and grinn'd,) Have you just sent your wits for a venture?" Then I follow'd her into her house,

There I vow'd I my passion would try;
But there I was still as a mouse;
O what a dull booby was I!

§16. Song. The Despairing Lover. WALSH.

DISTRACTED with care,

For Phillis the fair,

Since nothing could move her,
Poor Damon, her lover,
Resolves in despair

No longer to languish,
Nor bear so much anguish;
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above
Would soon finish his woes.

When, in rage, he came there,
Beholding how steep

The sides did appear,
And the bottom how deep;

No coin in his pocket, no care in his pate,
No ambition had he, nor duns at his gate.

Derry down, down, down, derry down. Contented he work'd, and he thought himself happy

If at night he could purchase a jug of brown nappy:

too, most sweet!

How he'd laugh then, and whistle, and sing [meet! Saying, Just to a hair I have made both ends Derry down, down, &c.

But love, the disturber of high and of low, That shoots at the peasant as well as the beau; He shot the poor cobbler quite thro' the heart; I wish he had hit some more ignoble part.

Derry down, down, &c.

It was from a cellar this archer did play,
Where a buxom young damsel continually lay;
Her eyes shone so bright when she rose every
day,

That she shot the poor cobbler quite over the

way.

Derry down, down, &c.

He sung her love-songs as he sat at his work, But she was as hard as a Jew or a Turk : Whenever he spoke she would flounce and would fleer,

Which put the poor cobbler quite into despair, Derry down, down, &c.*

He took up his awl that he had in the world, And to make away with himself was resolv'd; He pierced through his body instead of the sole, So the cobbler he died, and the bell it did toll, Derry down, down, &c.

And now, in good will, I advise, as a friend, All cobblers take warning by this cobbler's end: Keep your hearts out of love, for we find, by what's past,

That love brings us all to an end at the last, Derry down, down, down, derry down.

§18. Song. MOORE.

WHEN Damon languish'd at my feet,
And I beliey'd him true,
The moments of delight how sweet!!
But oh! how swift they flew !

The sunny hill, the flow'ry vale,
The garden, and the grove,
Have echo'd to his ardent tale,
And vows of endless love.

The conquest gain'd, he left his prize,
He left her to complain;

To talk of joy with weeping eyes,
And measure time by pain.

But Heaven will take the mourner's part,
In pity to despair;

And the last sigh that rends the heart
Shall waft the spirit there.

§ 19. Song. The Lass of the Hill. Miss MARY JONES.

On the brow of a hill a young shepherdess dwelt,

Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er felt: For a few sober maxims still ran in her head, That 'twas better to earn ere she ate her brown bread;

That to rise with the lark was conducive to health,

And to folks in a cottage, contentment was wealth.

Now young Roger, who liv'd in the valley below,

Who at church and at market was reckon'd a beau, Had many times tried o'er her heart to prevail, And would rest on his pitchfork to tell her his tale: [heart;

With his winning behaviour he melted her But, quite artless herself, she suspected no art.

He had sigh'd, and protested, had kneel'd and

implor'd,

And could lie with the grandeur and air of a lord:

Then her eyes he commended in language well dress'd,

And enlarg'd on the torments that troubled his breast;

Till his sighs and his tears had so wrought on her mind,

That in downright compassion to love she in

clin'd.

944

All the day she goes sighing, and hanging her head,

And her thoughts are so pester'd, she scarce earns her bread;

The whole village cries shame, when a-milking

she goes,

That so little affection is shown to the cows: But she heeds not their railing, e'en let them rail on,

And a fig for the cows now her sweetheart is

§ 20. Song. BARTON BOOTH, Esq.
SWEET are the charms of her I love,
More fragrant than the damask rose,
Soft as the down of turile dove,

Gentle as air when Zephyr blows,
Refreshing as descending rains
To sun-burnt climes and thirsty plains.
True as the needle to the pole,
Or "
as the dial to the sun;"
Constant as gliding waters roll,

Whose swelling tides obey the moon!
From ev'ry other charmer free,
My life and love shall follow thee.
The lamb the flow'ry thyme devours,
The dam the tender kid pursues;
Sweet Philomel, in shady bow'rs

Of verdant spring, her note renews;
All follow what they most admire,
As I pursue my soul's desire.

Nature must change her beauteous face,
And vary as the seasons rise;
As winter to the spring gives place,
Summer th' approach of autumn flies;
No change in love the seasons bring,
Love only knows perpetual spring.
Devouring time, with stealing pace,

Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow;
And marble tow'rs, and gates of brass,
In his rude march he levels low:
But time destroying far and wide,
Love from the soul can ne'er divide.
Death only with his cruel dart

The gentle godhead can remove;
And drive him from the bleeding heart,
To mingle with the bless'd above;
Where known to all his kindred train,
He finds a lasting rest from pain.
Love, and his sister fair, the Soul,
Twin-born, froin heaven together came;
Love will the universe control,

When dying seasons lose their name;
Divine abodes shall own his pow'r,

When time and death shall be no more.

§ 21. Song. PARNELL.

every

The fav'rite of soul.
my

Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines,
Ye swains that haunt the grove,
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds,
Ye close retreats of love!

With all of nature, all of art,
Assist the dear design;

O teach a young, unpractis'd heart,
To make her ever mine.

The very thought of change I hate
As much as of despair;
Nor ever covet to be great,

Unless it be for her.

'Tis true, the passion in my mind
Is mix'd with soft distress:
Yet, while the fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it less.

§22. Song. May Eve; or, Kate of Aberdeen. CUNNINGHAM.

THE silver moon's enamor'd beain

Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.
To beds of state go, balmy sleep,

('Tis where you've seldom been) May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,
Till morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare
The promis'd May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair
As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike the tabor's boldest notes,
up
We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love.

And see, the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green :

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,
"Tis Kate of Aberdeen!