Or purple heath is ting'd in vain : For such the rivers dash the foaming tides, The mountain swells, the dale subsides; Ev'n thriftless furze detains their wandering sight, And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with delight. * Why brand these pleasures with the name Of soft, unsocial toils, of indolence and shame ? Search but the garden, or the wood, Let yon admir'd carnation own, Not all was meant for raiment, or for food, There while the seeds of future blossoms dwell, 'Tis colour'd for the sight, perfum'd to please the smell. Why knows the nightingale to sing? Why flows the pine's nectareous juice? Some for amusive tasks design'd, To soothe the certain ills of life; Grace its lone vales with many a budding rose, New founts of bliss disclose, Call forth refreshing shades, and decorate repose. ODE TO MEMORY. O MEMORY! celestial maid! Who glean'st the flowerets cropt by Time; And, suffering not a leaf to fade, Preserv'st the blossoms of our prime; Bring, bring those moments to my mind When life was new, and Lesbia kind. And bring that garland to my sight, With which my favour'd crook she bound; And bring that wreath of roses bright Which then my festive temples crown'd; And to my raptur'd ear convey The gentle things she deign'd to say. And sketch with care the Muse's bower, Nor yet omit one reed or flower That shines on Cherwell's verdant side; If so thou may'st those hours prolong, When polish'd Lycon join'd my song. The song it 'vails not to recite But sure, to soothe our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more bright Than other banks, than other streams: Or, by thy softening pencil shown, And paint that sweetly vacant scene, My spirits light, my soul serene, I breath'd in verse one cordial vow: That nothing should my soul inspire, But friendship warm, and love entire. Dull to the sense of new delight, On thee the drooping Muse attends; As some fond lover, robb'd of sight, On thy expressive power depends; Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines. But let me chase those vows away Which at ambition's shrine I made; Nor ever let thy skill display Those anxious moments, ill repaid: Oh! from my breast that season raze, And bring my childhood in its place. Bring me the bells, the rattle bring, Then will I muse, and pensive say, While innocence allow'd to waste! HENRY CAREY. DIED 1763. HENRY CAREY was a musician by profession, and author both of the words and melody of the pleasing song of " Sally in our alley." He came to an untimely death by his own hands. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. Of all the girls that are so smart, She is the darling of my heart, Her father he makes cabbage-nets, And through the streets does cry 'em'; Her mother she sells laces long, To such as please to buy 'em: She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, Of all the days that's in the week, And that's the day that comes betwixt For then I'm dress'd all in my best, My master carries me to church, I leave the church in sermon time, She is the darling of my heart, When Christmas comes about again, |