[Rowe alludes in this ballad to the Countess Dowager of Warwick, who left him for another swain whose music was sweeter than his own, namely Addison. Dr. Johnson says that the Countess married the poetical Secretary of State on terms "much like those on which a Turkish Princess is espoused, to whom the Sultan is reported to pronounce, Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave."" marriage so unequal made no addition to Addison's happiness.]

A

MY DAYS HAVE BEEN SO WONDROUS FREE.

DR. PARNELL.

Born 1679-Died 1717.

My days have been so wondrous free,
The little birds that fly

With careless ease from tree to tree,
Were but as bless'd as I.

Ask gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine increas'd their stream?
Or ask the flying gales, if e'er
I lent one sigh to them?

But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught,
The tender chains of sweet desire
Are fix'd upon my thought.

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 my Nancy 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.

WHEN THY BEAUTY APPEARS.

DR. PARNELL.

When thy beauty appears,

In its graces and airs,

All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky;
At distance I gaze, and am aw'd by my fears,
So strangely you dazzle my eye!

But when without art,

Your kind thoughts you impart,

When your love runs in blushes through every vein; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in

your heart,

Then I know you're a woman again.

There's a passion and pride
In our sex, she replied,

And thus (might I gratify both) I would do;
Still an angel appear to each lover beside,
But still be a woman to you.

THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.

On Richmond Hill there lives a lass
More bright than May-day morn,
Whose charms all other maids surpass,
A rose without a thorn.

This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet,
Has won my right good-will;

I'd crowns

5 resign to call her mine, Sweet lass of Richmond Hill.

Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air,

And wanton thro' the grove,

Oh! whisper to my charming fair,

I die for her I love.

How happy will the shepherd be

Who calls this nymph his own!
Oh! may her choice be fix'd on me,
Mine's fix'd on her alone.

A LOVE SONG IN THE MODERN TASTE.-1733.

DEAN SWIFT.

or

ALEXANDER pope.

Born 1667-Died 1744. Born 1688-Died 1744.

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid! o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions,
Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days' consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth,
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers,
Fair Discretion, string the lyre,
Sooth my ever waking numbers,
Bright Apollo lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto! king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors
Wat'ring soft Elysian plains.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus hov'ring o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy, smooth Meander
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flow'ry chaplets crown'd.

Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate;
See the birds of Juno stooping:
Melody resigns to fate.

[This exquisite satire on too many songs is printed in Swift's Poetical Works, last edition by Mitford, vol. ii. p. 53, and Pope's Poetical Works, last edition by Dyce, vol. ii. p. 185, where it is entitled a "Song by a Person of Quality." Whose property is this song? the Dean's, or the nightingale of Twickenham's? In the fifth volume of Swift's Miscellanies, 1735, p. 129, it is printed in the midst of numerous pieces undoubtedly from the Dean's pen.]

SWEET ARE THE CHARMS OF HER I LOVE.

BARTON BOOTH.

Born 1681-Died 1733.

Sweet are the charms of her I love,

More fragrant than the damask rose;
Soft as the down of turtle dove,
Gentle as air when Zephyr blows,
Refreshing as descending rains

To sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains.