The rising sigh, the frequent tear,
The flush of hope, the chilling fear;
So may the sympathetic soul
Direct kind Fancy's wing

Where future hours in transport roll,
And love's rewards shall bring.

J. SHIELD.

TO DELIA.

NOT PUBLISHED.

Sung in Private Circles.

THOMPSON.

FORLORN, the poor exile pursues his sad way,
Tho' Summer around him may smile;
His bosom to hopeless dejection a prey;
Ah! what can of sorrow beguile.

Rich prospects may open-they charm not his eye;
Unheeded the torrent may foam:

Each step-he reflects, and it costs him a sigh-
Bears him farther and farther from home.

But see him his footsteps begin to retrace;
Then, heedless of Winter's harsh sway,
No longer dejected, Joy beams on his face,-
For all in his bosom is May.

The landscape, tho' dreary, now yields him delight,
And still doth more pleasing become;
More balmy the air, the horizon more bright,
As the distance decreases from home.

'Tis thus, O my Delia! from thee when I part,
All cheerless and pensive I stray;

No objects can pleasure convey to my heart;
For who can in exile be gay?

My breast is the seat of a thousand alarms;
Care saddens each scene as I roam:

But sweet is the change, when I fly to thy arms;
For then my fond heart is at home.

O'KEEFE.

THE TWINS OF LATONA.

-DALE, LONDON..

Sung by Mr Johnsone.

THE twins of Latona, so kind to my boon,

Arise, to partake of the chase;

-SHIELD.

And Sol lends a ray to chaste Dian's fair moon,

And a smile to the smiles on her face.

For the sport we delight in, the bright Queen of Love With myrtles my brow shall adorn;

While Pan breaks his chanter, and skulks in the grove,
Excell'd by the sound of the horn.

The dogs are uncoupled, and sweet is their cry;
Yet sweeter the notes of sweet Echo's reply.
Hark forward, hark forward-the game is in view;
But love is the game that I wish to pursue.

The stag from his chamber of woodbine peeps out;
His sentence he hears in the gale;

Yet flies till, entangled in fear and in doubt,
His courage and constancy fail.

Surrounded by foes, he prepares for the fray,
Despair taking place of his fear;

With antlers erected, awhile stands at bay,
Then surrenders his life with a tear.

The dogs are, &c.

GARRICK.

NO FLOW'R THAT BLOWS.

-DALE, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Mountain.

NO flow'r that blows
Is like this rose,

Or scatters such perfume;

Upon my breast,

Ah! gently rest,
And ever, ever bloom.

Dear pledge, to prove
A parent's love,

A pleasing gift thou art;

Come, sweetest flow'r,

And, from this hour,

Live henceforth in my heart.

LINLEY.

POOR TOM THE BLIND BOY.

J. SHIELD.

-GOULDING, LONDON.

Sung at the Newcastle Concerts.

THOMPSON,

IN darkness I wander, led on by poor Tray;,

Ah! darkness, whose horrors shall ne'er pass away!

The morning, diffusive of rapture and glee, Returns, but its radiance ne'er breaks upon me; To me it restores no transition of joy,

Nor ends the long night of poor Tom the blind boy!

My companions rejoice in the sun's cheering light,
Or rapt'rously hail the mild glories of night;
But vainly to me shines the bright orb of day,
And the moon and the stars their effulgence display;
For a sight of their splendours I ne'er shall enjoy ;
All is dark empty space to poor Tom the blind boy!

'Tis summer, they tell me—all nature looks gay; Vales, woodlands, and mountains, alas! what are they?

Hoarse murmurs discover where rushes the flood,
And melody points out the grove and the wood;
But a sight of their beauties I neʼer shall enjoy;
All is dark empty space to poor Tom the blind boy!

They talk of bright flow'rs which bespangle the ground,

Of birds of gay plume that flit, sportive, around; Ah! the woodbine's sweet fragrance, the lark's cheerful song,

Oft my sadness beguile, as I wander along;

But a sight of their beauties I ne'er shall enjoy;
All is dark empty space to poor Tom the blind boy!

O pity my dreary, my comfortless state;
O pity the want which embitters my fate!
Alas! the privations, Heav'n gives me to prove,
Your kindness may soften, tho' never remove:

P

Relieve these, and bright be the hours ye enjoy!
The child of Misfortune, poor Tom the blind boy!

ANON.

IN THE ROUGH BLAST, ETC.

-KELLY, LONDON.

Sung by Mrs Jordan.

IN the rough blast heaves the billow,
In the light air waves the willow;
Every thing of moving kind

Varies with the veering wind.
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

After fretted, pouting Sorrow,
Sweeter is the smile to-morrow;
Passing still each changeful thing
Fairest is upon the wing.
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

Sombre tale and satire witty,
Sprightly glee and doleful ditty,
Measur'd sighs and roundelay,
Welcome all! but do not stay:
For what have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

-KELLY.