Honour calls him to the field,
Love to conquest now must yield;
Sweet maid! he cries, again I'll come to thee,
When the glad trumpet sounds a victory!
Battle now with fury glows!
Hostile blood in torrents flows!
His duty tells him to depart,
She press'd her hero to her heart.
And now the trumpet sounds to arms,
Amid the clash of rude alarms;
Sweet maid! he cries, &c.
He with love and conquest burns,
Both subdue his mind by turns;
Death the soldier now enthralls!
With his wounds the hero falls!
She disdaining war's alarms,
Rush'd, and caught him in her arms.
O death! he cries, thou'rt welcome now to me!
For hark! the trumpet sounds a victory!
OH! the hours that I've pass'd in the arms of my dear, Can never be thought on but with a sad tear;
Oh! forbear, Oh! forbear, then to mention her name,
It recalls to my mem'ry the cause of my pain.
How often to love me, she fondly has sworn,
And when parted from me, wou'd ne'er cease to mourn;
All hardships for me she would cheerfully bear,
And at night on my bosom forget all her care.
To some distant clime together we'll roam,
And forget all the hardship we meet with at home:
Fate, now be propitious, and grant me thine aid,
Give me my Pastora, and I'm more than repaid.
WHILE I hang on your bosom, distracted to lose you,
High swells my sad heart, and fast my tears flow,
Yet think not of coldness they fall to accuse you;
Did I ever upbraid you? Oh, no, my love, no!
I own it would please me, at home could you tarry,
Nor e'er feel a wish from Maria to go;
But if it gives pleasure to you, my dear Harry,
Shall I blame your departure? Oh, no, my love, no!
Now do not, dear Hal, while abroad you are straying,
That heart which is mine on a rival bestow;
Nay, banish that frown, such displeasure betraying;
Do you think I suspect you? Oh, no, my love, no!
I believe you too kind for one moment to grieve me,
Or plant in a heart which adores you such woe;
Yet, should you dishonour my truth, and deceive me,
Should I e'er cease to love you? Oh, no, my love, no.
WHEN THE ROSY MORN APPEARING.
WHEN the rosy morn appearing,
Paints with gold the verdant lawn,
Bees, on banks of thyme disporting,
Sip the sweets, and hail the dawn.
Warbling birds, the day proclaiming,
Carol sweet the lively strain;
They forsake their leafy dwelling,
To secure the golden grain.
See, content, the humble gleaner,
Take the scatter'd ears that fall:
Nature, all her children viewing,
Kindly bounteous, cares for all.
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 resign, to call her mine,
Sweet lass of Richmond hill.
Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air,
And wanton through the grove,
Go, whisper to my charming fair,
I die for her and love.
This lass so neat, &c.
How happy will that shepherd be,
Who calls this nymph his own:
her choice be fixed on me,
Mine's fixed on her alone.
TO ANACREON IN HEAVEN.
To Anacreon in Heaven, where he sat in full glee,
A few sons of harmony sent a petition,
That he their inspirer and patron would be;
When this answer arriv'd from the jolly old Grecian:
Voice, fiddle, and flute,
I lend you my name, and inspire you to boot; And besides I'll instruct you like me to entwine The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
The news through Olympus immediately flew,
When Old Thunder pretended to give himself airs:
If these mortals are suffer'd their scheme to pursue,
The devil a goddess will stay above stairs.
Hark! already they cry,
Away to the sons of Anacreon we'll fly,
And there with good fellows we'll learn to entwine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
The yellow-hair'd god, and his nine fusty maids,
From Helicon's banks will incontinent flee,
Idalia will boast but of tenantless shades,
And the biforked hill a mere desert will be.
My thunder, no fear on't,
Shall soon do its errand,
And, d-me! I'll swinge the ringleaders, I warrant;
I'll trim the young dogs for thus daring to twine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
Apollo rose up, and said, Prithee ne'er quarrel,
Good king of the gods, with my vot❜ries below;
Your thunder is useless, then showing his laurel,
Cried, Sic evitabile fulmen, you know!
Then over each head
My laurels I'll spread,
So my sons from your crackers no mischief shall dread,
While snug in their club-room they jovially twine
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
Next Momus got up with his risible phiz,
And swore with Apollo he'd cheerfully join:
The full tide of harmony still shall be his,
But the song, and the catch, and the laugh shall be
Then Jove be not jealous
Of these honest fellows.
Cried Jove, We relent, since the truth you now
And swear by old Styx, that they long shall entwine,
The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
Ye sons of Anacreon, then join hand in hand;
Preserve unanimity, friendship, and love:
'Tis yours to support what's so happily plann'd;
You've the sanction of gods, and the fiat of Jove.
While thus we agree,
May our club flourish happy, united, and free! And long may the sons of Anacreon entwine The myrtle of Venus with Bacchus's vine.
IS THERE A HEART THAT NEVER LOV'D.
Is there a heart that never lov'd,
Nor felt soft woman's sigh?
Is there a man can mark unmov'd,
Dear woman's tearful eye?
Oh! bear him to some distant shore,
Or solitary cell,
Where nought but savage monsters roar,
Where love ne'er deign'd to dwell.
For there's a charm in woman's eye,
A language in her tear,
A spell in every sacred sigh,
To man-to virtue dear.
And he who can resist her smiles,
With brutes alone should live,
Nor taste that joy which care beguiles—
That joy her virtues give.
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