THOU CANST NOT BOAST OF FORTUNE'S STORE.
Thou canst not boast of fortune's store, My love, while me they wealthy call, glad to find thee poor,
For with my heart I'd give thee all,
And then the grateful youth shall own,
I lov'd him for himself alone.
But when his worth my hand shall gain,
No word or look of mine shall show,
That I the smallest thought retain
Of what my bounty did bestow,
Yet still his grateful heart shall own,
I lov'd him for himself alone.
[Sung by Louisa in the Duenna.]
When sable night, each drooping plant restoring,
Wept o'er the flow'rs her breath did cheer,
As some sad widow o'er her babe deploring,
Wakes its beauty with a tear ;
When all did sleep, whose weary hearts did borrow
One hour from love and care to rest,
Lo! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow,
My lover caught me to his breast;
He vow'd he came to save me
From those who would enslave me!
Then kneeling,
Kisses stealing,
Endless faith he swore:
But soon I bid him thence,
For had his fond pretence,
Obtained one favour then,
And he had press'd again,
I fear'd my treacherous heart might grant him more.
[In the Duenna. Burns in one of his letters to George Thomson calls this "a pretty English song to the air of Saw ye my Father.'"]
Think not, my love, when secret grief
Preys on my sadden'd heart,
Think not I wish a mean relief,
Or would from sorrow part.
Dearly I prize the sighs sincere,
That my true fondness prove,
Nor could I bear to check the tear
That flows from hapless love.
Alas? though doom'd to hope in vain
The joys that love requite,
Yet will I cherish all its pain,
With sad but dear delight.
This treasur'd grief, this lov'd despair
My lot for ever be:
But dearest, may the pangs I bear
Be never known to thee.
O had my love ne'er smil'd on me,
I ne'er had known such anguish;
But think how false, how cruel she,
To bid me cease to languish :
To bid me hope her hand to gain,
Breathe on a flame half perish'd;
And then with cold and fix'd disdain,
To kill the hope she cherish'd.
Not worse his fate, who on a wreck,
That drove as winds did blow it;
Silent had left the shatter'd deck,
To find a grave below it.
Then land was cried no more resign'd,
He glow'd with joy to hear it;
Not worse his fate, his woe to find,
The wreck must sink ere near it.
Born 1752-Died 1770.
What is war and all its joys?
Useless mischief, empty noise.
What are arms and trophies won ?
Spangles glittering in the sun.
Rosy Bacchus give me wine,
Happiness is only thine.
What is love without the bowl?
'Tis a languor of the soul:
Crown'd with ivy, Venus charms,
Ivy courts me to her arms.
Bacchus give me love and wine,
Happiness is only thine.
Turn, lovely Gwen, be good and kind,
And listen to thy lover's prayer,
Full well I know, there's none so blind,
But must adore my charming fair.
Despise me not for being poor,
I am not very rich 'tis true;
But if thou canst my lot endure,
I shall be rich enough in you.
[From Jones' Translations of old Welsh poetry, among which there are many happy lines and pretty thoughts.]
GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS.
Cease, rude Boreas, blust'ring railer!
List, ye landsmen, all to me!
Messmates, hear a brother sailor
Sing the dangers of the sea;
From bounding billows, fast in motion,
When the distant whirlwinds rise,
To the tempest-troubled ocean,
Where the seas contend with skies!
Hark! the boatswain hoarsely bawling,
By topsail-sheets and haul-yards stand!
Down top-gallants quick be hauling;
Down your stay-sails, hand, boys, hand!
Now it freshens, set the braces,
Quick the topsail-sheets let go;
Luff, boys, luff! don't make wry faces,
Up your topsails nimbly clew.
Now all you on down-beds sporting,
Fondly lock'd in beauty's arms;
Fresh enjoyments wanton courting,
Safe from all but love's alarms;
Round us roars the tempest louder;
Think what fear our minds enthrals,
Harder yet, it yet blows harder,
Now again the boatswain calls!
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