SONGS

FROM

M.P.; OR, THE BLUE STOCKING.

SONG.

SUSAN.

YOUNG Love liv'd once in an humble shed,

Where roses breathing,

And woodbines wreathing

Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.

His garden flourish'd,

For young Hope nourish'd

The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, though blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye

Should e'er come hither,

Such sweets to wither!

The flowers laid down their heads to die,

And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.

She came one morning,

Ere Love had warning,

And rais'd the latch, where the young god lay; "Oh ho!" said Love" is it you? good-by;' So he oped the window, and flew away!

To sigh, yet feel no pain,

Το

weep, yet scarce know why;

To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by.

To kneel at many a shrine,

Yet lay the heart on none;

To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won.

This is love, faithless love,

Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,

Through life unchill'd, unmov'd,

To love, in wintry age, the same
As first in youth we lov'd;

To feel that we adore,

Ev'n to such fond excess,

That, though the heart would break, with more, It could not live with less.

This is love, faithful love,

Such as saints might feel above.

SPIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies

In youthful hearts that hope like mine; And 'tis the light of laughing eyes,

That leads us to thy fairy shrine.
There if we find the sigh, the tear,

They are not those to Sorrow known;
But breath so soft, and drops so clear,
That Bliss may claim them for her own.
Then give me, give me, while I weep,
The sanguine hope that brightens woe,
And teaches ev'n our tears to keep
The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child, who sees the dew of night
Upon the spangled hedge at morn,
Attempts to catch the drops of light,
But wounds his finger with the thorn.

Thus oft the brightest joys we seek,

Are lost, when touch'd, and turn to pain; The flush they kindled leaves the cheek, The tears they waken long remain.

But give me, give me, &c. &c

WHEN Leila touch'd the lute,
Not then alone 'twas felt,

But, when the sounds were mute,
In memory still they dwelt.
Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she, who stole

Such breath from simple wire,

Be led, in pride of soul,

To string with gold her lyre? Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh; Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales
Her lute so sweetly told?

In lofty themes she fails,

And soft ones suit not gold. Rich lute! we see thee glisten, But, alas! no more we listen!