PACCHUS

JUNO.

487

Then contented I resign

My prerogative of scolding;

Quiet when thy love is mine,

When my arms with thine are folding.

CUPID.

AIR.

Love and wine uniting,
Rule without controul,
Are to the sense delighting,
And captivate the soul.

Love and wine uniting,
Are every where ador'd;
Their pleasures are inviting,
All Heav'n they can afford.
BACCHUS.

AIR.

Zounds, I agree, 'tis folly to oppose it:
Let's pay our duty here, and then we'll close it.
[To the audience.
To you, ye brave, ye fair, ye gay,
Permit me from myself to say;
The juicy grape for you shall rise,
In all the colours of the skies;
For you the vine's delicious fruit
Shall on the lofty mountains shoot;
And ev'ry wine to Bacchus dear
Shall sparkle in perfection here.

CUPID.

For you, ye fair, whose heavenly charms
Make all my arrows useless arms;
For you shall Handel's lofty flight
Clash on the list'ning ear of night,
And the soft melting sinking lay
In gentle accents die away:
And not a whisper shall appear,
Which modesty would blush to hear.

JUNO.

Ye brave, the pillars of the state,
In valour and in conduct great,
For you the rushing clang of arms,
The yell of battle and alarms,
Shall from the martial trumpets fly,
And echo through the mantling sky.

JUPITER.

From you, ye glories of mankind,
We hope a firm support to find;
All that our humble powers can do
Shall be displayed to pleasure you;
On you we build a wish'd success,
"Tis yours, like deities to bless.
Your smiles will better every scene,
And clothe our barren waste in green,
CHORUS.

So when along the eastern skies,
The glories of the morning rise,
The humble flower which slept the night,
Expands its beauties to the light,

Glows in its glossy new array,

And shines amidst the shining day.

End of the Revenge,

SONGS.

A BACCHANALIAN.
SUNG BY MR. REINHOLD.

BACCHUS, ever smiling power,
Patron of the festive hour!
Here thy genuine nectar roll
To the wide capacious bowl,
While gentility and glee

Make these gardens worthy thee.
Bacchus, ever mirth and joy,
Laughing, wanton, happy boy!
Here advance thy clustered crown,
Send thy purple blessings down;
With the Nine to please conspire,
Wreath the ivy round the lyre.

THE INVITATION.

TO BE SUNG BY MRS. BARTHELEMON AND
MASTER CHENEY.

AWAY to the woodlands, away!
The shepherds are forming a ring
To dance to the honour of May,
And welcome the pleasures of Spring.
The shepherdess labours a grace,
And shines in her Sunday's array,
And bears in the bloom of her face
The charms and the beauties of May.
Away to the woodlands, away!

The shepherds are forming a ring, &c.

Away to the woodlands, away! And join with the amorous train: 'Tis treason to labour to day,

Now Bacchus and Cupid must reign.

With garlands of primroses made,

And crown'd with the sweet blooming spray,
Thro' woodland, and meadow, and shade,
We'll dance to the honour of May.
Away to the, &c.

Young Colin has a comely face, And cudgels with an active grace,

In every thing complete; But Hobbinol can dance divine, Gods! how his manly beauties shine, When jigging with his feet. Roger is very stout and strong, And Thyrsis sings a heavenly song,

Soft Giles is brisk and small.

Who shall I choose? who shai! I shun?
Why must I be confin'd to one?
Why can't I have them all?

THE HAPPY PAIR.
STREPHON.

Lucy, since the knot was ty'd,

Which confirm'd thee Strephon's bride,.All is pleasure, all is joy,

Married love can never cloy;

Learn, ye rovers, learn from this,
Marriage is the road to bliss.

LUCY.

Whilst thy kindness ev'ry hour
Gathers pleasure with its power,
Love and tenderness in thee
Must be happiness to me.
Learn, ye rovers, learn from this,
Marriage is substantial bliss.

вотн.

Godlike Hymen, ever reign,
Ruler of the happy train,
Lift thy flaming torch above,
All the flights of wanton love,
Peaceful, solid, blest, serene,
Triumph in the married scene.

STREPHON.

Blest with thee, the sultry day
Flies on wings of down away,
Lab'ring o'er the yellow plain,
Open to the sun and rain,
All my painful labours fly,
When I think my Lucy's nigh.

LUCY.

O my Strephon, could my heart
Happiness to thee impart,
Joy should sing away the hour,
Love should ev'ry pleasure show'r,
Search my faithful breast, and see,
I am blest in loving thee.

BOTH.
Godlike Hymen, ever reign,
Ruler of the happy train,
Lift thy flaming torch above
All the flights of wanton love,
Peaceful, solid, blest, serene,
Triumph in the married scene.

RESIGNATION.

[Copied from a poem in Chatterton's hand-writing in the British Museum.]

HAIL Resignation, hail ambiguous dame,
Thou Parthian archer in the fight of fame!

When thou hast drawn the mystic veil between,
'Tis the poor minister's concluding scene.
Sheltered beneath thy pinions he withdraws,
And tells us his integrity's the cause.
Sneaking to solitude he rails at state,
And rather would be virtuous than be great,
Laments the impotence of those who guide,
And wishes public clamours may subside.
But while such rogues as North or Sandwich steer,
Our grievances will never disappear.

Hail Resignation! 'tis from thee we trace
The various villanies of power and place,
When rascals, once but infamy and rags,
Rich with a nation's ruin, swell their bags,
Purchase a title and a royal smile,
And pay to be distinguishably vile.
When big with self importance' thus they shine,
Contented with their gleanings they resign.
When ministers, unable to preside,
The tott'ring vehicle no longer guide,
The powerful Thane prepares to kick his grace
From all his glorious dignities of place,
But still the honour of the action's thine,
And Grafton's tender conscience can resign.
Lament not Grafton that thy hasty fall
Turns out a public happiness to all,
Still by your emptiness of look appear
The ruins of a man who used to steer,
Still wear that insignificance of face
Which dignifies you more than power or place.
Whilst now the constitution tott'ring stands
And needs the firm support of able hands,
Your grace stood foremost in the glorious cause
To shake the very basis of our laws,
But thanks to Camden, and a noble few,
They stemm'd oppression's tide and conquer'd

you.

How can your prudence be completely prais'd
In flying from the storm yourself had rais'd,
When the black clouds of discord veil'd the sky,
'Twas more than prudence in your grace to fly,
For had the thunders burst upon your head
Soon had you mingled with the headless dead.
Not Bute tho' here, the deputy of fate,
Could save so vile a minister of state.

Oft has the Carlton sybil prophesy'd
How long each minister of state should guide,
And from the dark recesses of her cell,
When Bute was absent, would to Stuart tell
The secret fates of senators and peers,
What lord's exalted but to lose his ears,
What future plans the junto have design'd,
What writers are with Rockingham combin'd,
Who should accept a privy seal or rod,
Who's lord lieutenant of the Land of Nod,
What pension'd nobleman should hold his post,
What poor dependant scor'd without his host,
What patriot big with popular applause
Should join the ministry and prop the cause,
With many secrets of a like import,
The daily tittle tattle of a court,
By common fame retail'd as office news
In coffee-houses, taverns, cellars, stews.
Oft from her secret casket would she draw
A knotty plan to undermine the law,
But tho' the council sat upon the scheme,
Time has discovered that 'tis all a dream.

1 A pen drawn through these words. Query, wretches?

Long had she known the date of Grafton's power,
And in her tablet mark'd his flying hour,
Rumour reports, a message from her cell
Arrived but just three hours before he feil.
Well knew the subtle minister of state
Her knowledge in the mysterics of fate,
And catching every pension he could find,
Obey'd the fatal summons and resign'd.

Far in the north amidst whose dreary hills
None hear the pleasant murm'ring sound of rills,
Where no soft gale in dying raptures blows,
Or ought which bears the look of verdure grows,
Save where the north wind cuts the solema yew
And russet rushes drink the noxious dew,
Dank exhalations drawn from stagnant moors,
The morning dress of Caledonia's shores.
Upon a bleak and solitary plain

Expos'd to every storm of wind and rain,
A humble cottage rear'd its lowly head,
Its roof with matted reeds and rushes spread,
The walls were osiers daub'd with slimy clay,
One narrow entrance open'd to the day;
Here liv'd a laird the ruler of his clan,
Whose fame thro' every northern mountain ran;
Great was his learning, for he long had been
A student at the town of Aberdeen,
Professor of all languages at once,

To him some reckoned Chappellow a dunce.
With happy fluency he learn'd to speak
Syriac or Latin, Arabic or Greek.
Not any tongue in which Oxonians sing
When they rejoice, or blubber with the king,
To him appear'd unknown: with sapient look
He taught the Highland meaning of each crook.
But often when to pastimes he inclin'd,
To give some relaxation to his mind,
He laid his books aside; forgot to read
To hunt wild goslings down the river Tweed,
To chase a starving weezel from her bed,
And wear the spoil triumphaut on his head.
'Tis true his rent roli just maintain'd his state,
But some in spite of poverty are great.
Tho' Famine sunk her impress on his face,
Still you might there his haughty temper trace,
Descended from a catalogue of kings
Whose warlike arts Mac Pherson sweetly sings;
He bore the majesty of monarchs past,
Like a tall pine rent with the winter's blast,
Whose spreading trunk and withered branches show
How glorious once the lordly tree might grow.
Of all the warring passions in his breast
Ambition still presided o'er the rest,
This is the spur which actuates us all,
The visionary height whence thousands fall,
The author's hobby-horse, the soldier's steed,
Which aids him in each military deed,
The lady's dresser, looking glass and paint,
The warm devotion of the seeming saint.

Sawney, the nobler ruler of the clan,
Had number'd o'er the riper years of man,
Graceful in stature, ravishing his mien,
To make a conquest was but to be seen.
Fir'd by ambition, he resolv'd to roam
Far from the famine of his native home,
To seek the warmer climate of the south,
And at one banquet feast his eyes and mouth.
In vain the am'rous Highland lass complain'd,
The son of monarchs would not be restrain'd,
Clad in his native many-colour'd suit
Forth struts the walking majesty of Bute.