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THE SOLDIER. What dreaming drone was ever bless'd
By thinking of the morrow?
To all the fools of sorrow:
The heart, its own defender;
And never beat surrender.
We meet,-'tis death or glory: 'Tis victory in all her charms,
Or fame in Britain's story.
And ruffians would enslave thee;
Who would not die to save thee? 'Tis you, 'tis I that meet the ball;
And me it better pleases
Than die of cold diseases;
With saws and tales unheeded, A tottering thing of ache and care,
Nor longer loved nor needed.
Thine eye with fire is streaming ;
Health sits in triumph beaming.
Fill high the wine to beauty ;
Thy country and thy duty. W. SMYTH.
When the black-letter'd list to the gods was pre
sented (The list of what Fate for each mortal intends), At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipp'd in three blessings, wife, children,
In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated,
For justice divine could not compass its ends; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,
[and friends. For earth becomes heaven with wife, children,
If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,
The fund ill secured oft in bankruptcy ends; But the heart issues bills which are never protested When drawn on the firm of wife, children, and
Though valour still glows in his life's waning
embers, The death-wounded tar,who his colours defends, Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers How bless'd was his home with wife, children,
The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story,
Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, With transport would barter whole ages of glory For one happy day with wife, children, and Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover,
[ascends, Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover
[and friends. The bower where he sat with wife, children, The dayspring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow,
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends; But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow No warmth from the smiles of wife, children,
and friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish
The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends; O'er me wave the willow ! and long may it flourish,
[friends. Bedew'd with the tears of wife, children, and Let us drink—for my song, growing graver and
graver, To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; Let us drink-pledge me high-Love and Virtue shall flavour
[friends. The glass which I fill to wife, children, and
HON. W. R. SPENCER.
THE MELANCHOLY MOTHER'S
CRADLE SONG *.
Slumber bless thy pillow :
Toss'd like ocean's billow. * Written for an air composed by my friend, S. C. Brown, Esq. VOL. III.
Hush, my babe! may Peace still spread
O'er thy couch her pinion; Though thy hapless mother's head
Bends to woe's dominion. Since, despising love and truth,
Stern thy father parted, Bow'd to earth, in early youth I perish broken hearted.
R. A. DAVENPORT.
THE PRAISES OF WINE. Ou moment most bless'd in the short life of man! Brightest spot of enjoyment in time's gloomy span! When, just languid enough for delight, we recline By the fire's cheerful blaze o'er the fast flowing
wine, With sensations too soothing for words to express, Alive to all joy, dead to every distress. Then, then gushing forth from the rapturous soul, Good humour and genius unitedly roll; [Youth, Laughing Friendship recounts all the pastimes of And at least we display that one excellence-truth. Cold prudence is banished, hypocrisy dies, And the warm honest spirit looks out at the eyes.
With sarcastic reflections let Rasselas paint The sinner convivial, a hermit the saint: But, annals of convents! full well can ye show That stagnation engenders corruption below; And though heavenly retirement may purify man, Monastic retirement on earth never can. Nay, vain is the censure that aims at the mind, And describes the good fellow to dulness confined, Calls his mirth void of fancy, his joy insincereWho can recognise Oldham and Rochester here? Or, to leave those choice wits and choice fellows
Who will own this the picture of Morris and Moore ?
Wine mitigates sorrow, wine stimulates joy! Its virtues ne'er fail, its delights never cloyIt gives strength to the weak, gentle thoughts to
the strong, Renovation to hope, inspiration to song : Age gathers fresh verdure from wonderful wine, And the best bloom of youth, radiant liquor, is
thine ! Thou easest the captive, thou lull'st to repose The sad eye that too long has forgotten to close ; All, all canst thou conquer--ah! wouldst thou
Victorious for me over absence and love.
My stomach is not good;
With him that wears a hood.
I am nothing a cold,
Of jolly good ale and old.
Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.