Each lonely scene shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

SONG LIII.

BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.*

THOU Soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream,

Of things more than mortal, sweet Shakspeare would

dream;

The fairies by moon-light dance round his green bed, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.

The love-stricken maiden, the soft-sighing swain,
Here rove without danger, and sigh without pain;
The sweet bud of beauty no blight shall here dread,
For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.

Here youth shall be fam'd for their love, and their truth,
And cheerful old age feel the spirit of youth;

For the raptures of fancy here poets shall tread,
For hallow'd the turf is that pillow'd his head.

Flow on, silver Avon, in song ever flow,

Be the swans on thy borders still whiter than snow!
Ever full be thy stream, like his fame may it spread !
And the turf ever hallow'd which pillow'd his head.

* In his ode upon dedicating a building, and erecting a statue, to Shakspeare, at Stratford-upon-Avon.

SONG LIV.

PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.

BY MRS. GREVILLE.

OFT I've implor'd the gods in vain,
And pray'd till I've been weary :
For once I'll seek my wish to gain
Of Oberon the fairy.

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite,
Who liv'st in woods unseen;
And oft by Cynthia's silver light
Trip'st gaily o'er the green.

If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd

As ancient stories tell;

And for th' Athenian maid who lov'd,

Thou sought'st a wond'rous spell.

*

O! deign once more t'exert thy power!
Haply some herb or tree,

Sovereign as juice from western flower, †
Conceals a balm for me.

I ask no kind return in love,
No tempting charm to please;
Far from the heart such gifts remove,
That sighs for peace and ease!

* See Shakspeare's Midsummer-night's Dream." + Ibid.

Nor ease, nor peace, that heart can know,

That like the needle true,

Turns at the touch of joy or woe,
But, turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound, 'Tis pain in each degree;

'Tis bliss but to a certain boundBeyond-is agony !

Then take this treacherous sense of mine,
Which dooms me still to smart ;
Which pleasure can to pain refine,
To pain new pangs impart.

O! haste to shed the sovereign balm,
My shatter'd nerves new string;
And for my guest, serenely calm,
The nymph Indifference bring!

At her approach, see Hope, see Fear,
See Expectation fly!

And Disappointment in the rear,
That blasts the purpos'd joy.

The tears, which Pity taught to flow,
My eyes shall then disown;

The heart, that throb'd at other's woe,
Shall then scarce feel its own.

The wounds, which now each moment bleed, Each moment then shall close;

And tranquil days shall still succeed

To nights of sweet repose.

O fairy-elf! but grant me this,
This one kind comfort send !
And so may never-fading bliss
Thy flowery paths attend!

So may the glow-worm's glimmering light,
Thy tiny footsteps lead

To some new region of delight,
Unknown to mortal tread!

And be thy acorn-goblet fill'd

With heaven's ambrosial dew,

From sweetest, freshest flowers distill'd,
That shed fresh sweets for you.

And what of life remains for me,
I'll pass in sober ease;
Half-pleas'd, contented will I be,
Content-but half to please.

SONG LV.

THE FAIRIES.

COME follow, follow me,
Ye fairy-elves that be,

Light tripping o'er the green;

Come follow Mab your queen : Hand in hand we'll dance around, For this place is fairy ground.

When mortals are at rest,
And snoring in their nest;

Unheard and unespied,

Through key-holes we do glide; Over tables, stools, and shelves, We trip it with our fairy-elves.

And if the house be foul,
With platter, dish, or bowl,
Up stairs we nimbly creep,
And find the sluts asleep;

Then we pinch their arms and thighs;
None us hears, and none us spies.

But if the house be swept,
And from uncleanness kept,
We praise the household maid,
And duly she is paid;

Every night before we go,
We drop a tester in her shoe.

Then o'er a mushroom's head
Our table-cloth we spread;
A grain of rye or wheat,
The diet that we eat;

Pearly drops of dew we drink,
In acorn-cups fill'd to the brink.

The brains of nightingales,
With unctious fat of snails,
Between two cockles stew'd,

Is meat that's eas'ly chew'd;

Tails of worms and marrow of mice, Do make a dish that's wond'rous nice.