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ELEGANT EXTRACTS.

POETICAL.

BOOK THE SIXTH.

SONGS, BALLADS, &c. &c.

1. Song. LORD LYTTELTON.

SAY, Mira, why is gentle love

stranger to that mind,

Which pity and esteem can move,
Which can be just and kind?
Is it because you fear to share
The ills that love molest,
The jealous doubt, the tender care,
That rack the am'rous breast?
Alas! by some degree of woe

We ev'ry bliss must gain:

The heart can ne'er a transport know, That never feels a pain.

$2. Song. WALLER.

Go, lovely rose !

Tell her that wastes her time, and me,
That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.'

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That, hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth

Of beauty, from the light retir'd;
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desir'd,
And not blush so to be admir'd.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare

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4. Song. EARL OF DORSET.*

To all you ladies now at land
We men at sea indite;
But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write;
The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore, to write to you,
With a fa la, la, la, la, la.

For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain;

Yet, if rough Neptune rouse the wind
To wave the azure main,

Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our ships at sea,
With a fa, &c.

Written at sea, the first Dutch war, 1665, the night before an engagement.

Then, if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost
By Dutchmen or by wind;
Our tears we'll send a speedier way,
The tide shall bring them twice a day,

With a fa, &c.

The king, with wonder and surprise,
Will swear the seas grow bold;
Because the tide will higher rise,

Than e'er it did of old:

But let him know it is our tears
Bring floods of tears to Whitehall stairs,

With a fa, &c.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our sad and dismal story,

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,
And quit their fort at Goree :
For what resistance can they find
From men who've left their hearts behind?
With a fa, &c.

Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind,

Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse,
No sorrow we shall find:

"Tis then no matter how things go,

Or who's our friend, or who's our foe,
With a fa, &c.

To pass our tedious hours away,
We throw a merry main;
Or else at serious ombre play;

But why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you,
With a fa, &c.

But now our fears tempestuous grow,
And cast our hopes away;
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play;
Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan,
With a fa, &c,

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in ev'ry note;

As if it sigh'd with each man's care
For being so remote :

'Think then how often love we've made

To you, when all those tunes were play'd, With a fa, &c.

In justice you cannot refuse

To think of our distress,
When we for hopes of honor lose

Our certain happiness;
All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love,

With a fa, &c.

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears;
In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity for our tears;
Let's hear of no inconstancy,
We have too much of that at sea,

With a fa, &c.

$5. Song. MOORE.

HARK! hark! 'tis a voice from the tomb! "Come, Lucy," it cries, "come away. The grave of thy Colin has room

To rest thee beside his cold clay."
"I come, my dear shepherd, I come;
Ye friends and companions, adieu!
I haste to my Colin's dark home,
To die on his bosom so true."
All mournful the midnight bell rung,
When Lucy, sad Lucy, arose;
And forth to the green turf she sprung,
Where Colin's pale ashes repose.
All wet with the night's chilling dew,
Her bosom embrac'd the cold ground;
While stormy winds over her blew,

And night-ravens croak'd all around. "How long, my lov'd Colin," she cried,

"How long must thy Lucy complain ?
How long shall the grave my love hide ?
How long ere it join us again?
For thee thy fond shepherdess liv'd,

With thee o'er the world would she fly;
For thee has she sorrow'd and griev'd,
For thee would she lie down and die.
"Alas! what avails it how dear

Thy Lucy was once to her swain! Her face like the lily so fair,

And eyes that gave light to the plain! The shepherd that lov'd her is gone,

That face and those eyes charm no more;

And Lucy, forgot and alone,

To death shall her Colin deplore."

While thus she lay sunk in despair,
And mourn'd to the echoes around,
Inflam'd all at once grew the air,
And thunder shook dreadful the ground!
"I hear the kind call, and obey;

O Colin, receive me," she cried :
Then, breathing a groan o'er his clay,
She hung on his tomb-stone, and died.
$6. 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.

§7. 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 glance 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

ד'

Whom long experience renders sage :)
While music charms the ravish'd ear;
While sparkling cups delight our eyes;
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,
8. 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.

*Captain James Dawson, the amiable and unfortunate subject of these beautiful stanzas, was one of the eight officers belonging to the Manchester regiment of volunteers, in the service of the young Chevalier, who were hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington Common, in 1746: and this ballad, writ ten about the time, is founded on a remarkable cir cumstance which actually happened at his execution Just before his death he wrote a song on his own misfortunes, which is supposed to be still extant.

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

[dragg'd

Should learn to lisp the giver's name. "But though, dear youth, thou shouldst be 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 sever'd 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.

9. Song. A Morning Piece: or, a Hymn for the Hay-makers. SMART.

BRISK chanticleer his matins had begun,
And broke the silence of the night;
And thrice he call'd aloud the tardy sun,
And thrice he hail'd the dawn's ambiguous
light;

[run.

Back to their graves the fear-begotten phantoms Strong Labor 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.

[throats,

All nature wakes; the birds unlock their
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!

10. Song. SUCKLING.

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?

Pr'ythee 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 moye,
This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her;

The devil take her.

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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!

12. 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;
His torments projecting,

And sadly reflecting,

That a lover forsaken,

A new love may get;

But a neck, when once broken,
Can never be set :

And that he could die
Whenever he would;
But that he could live
But as long as he could;
How grievous soever
The torment might grow,
He scorn'd to endeavor
To finish it so.

But bold, unconcern'd,
At thoughts of the pain,
He calmly return'd
To his cottage again.

§ 13. Song.

A COBBLER there was, and he liv'd in a stall Which serv'd him for parlor, for kitchen, and hall;

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

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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 through the
heart;

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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,
[way.

That she shot the poor cobbler quite over the
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 pierc'd 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.

§ 14. Song. The Lass of the Hill.
MISS MARY JONES.

On the brow of a hill a young shepherdess dwelt, [felt: Who no pangs of ambition or love had e'er For a few sober maxims still ran in her head, That 'twas better to earn ere she ate her brown

bread;
[health,
That to rise with the lark was conducive to
And to folks in a cottage, contentment was
wealth.

Now young Roger, who liv'd in the valley
below,
[beau,
Who at church and at market was reckon'd a
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 behavior 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
That in downright compassion to love she in-
her mind,
[clin'd.

But as soon as he melted the ice of her breast,
All the flames of his love in a moment de-

creas'd;

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