To misers give the sordid wealth,
To topers give the foaming can,
To me, kind pow'rs, the blessing, health,
A faithful friend, and Rosy Anne.
I WOULD I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride,
Accords not with the free-born soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
Fortune! take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around :
Place me along the rocks I love,
Which sounds to Ocean's wildest roar, I ask but this-again to rove,
Through scenes my youth hath know before.
Few are my years, and yet I feel
The world was ne'er designed for me,
Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss ;
Truth!-wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?
I loved-but those I loved are gone;
Had friends-my early friends are fled;
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions, o'er the bowl,
Dispel awhile the sense of ill,
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still.
And Woman! lovely Woman, thou!
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en THY smiles begin to pall.
Without a sigh would I resign
This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men,
I seek to shun, not hate, mankind,
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind;
Oh! that to me the wings were given,
Which bear the turtle to her nest !
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.
GREAT Father Bacchus! to my song repair,
For clust'ring grapes are thy peculiar care!
For thee large bunches load the bending vine,
And the last blessings of the year are thine.
To thee, his joys, the jolly Autumn owes,
When the fermenting juice the vat o'erflows:
Come Bacchus, strip with me, and drench all o'er
Thy limbs in must* of Wine, and drink at ev'ry pore.
AWAKE, Æolian Lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings;.
From Helicon's harmonious springs,
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flow'rs that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow,
Now the rich stream of music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong;
Through verdant vales and Ceres golden reign,
Now rolling down the steep amain,
Headlong impetuous see it pour,
The rocks and nodding groves
Re-bellow to the roar.
WHEN Britain calls her sons to arms,
To crush the pride of threat'ning foes,
The Soldier brave, without alarms,
To distant regions cheerful goes.
The scorching heat, the chilling cold,
The painful march he patient bears,
Undaunted, perils does behold,
And though in want, content appears.
But should the distant drum
Proclaim the foe in sight,
He soon forgets his wants,
And eager seeks the fight:
For Britain's glory shouts,
His breast with ardour glows,
And fearless, lion-like,
Darts dreadful on his foes.
Oh had I skill his worth to paint,
When he some town or post maintains,
'The ills he bears without complaint,
The toils which he unmov'd sustains;
No dang'rous service will refuse,
The fierce assaults he brave repels ;
Or in the trenches calmly views
The flying shot, or bursting shells.
If hostile walls he scales,
Or murd'rous batteries storms;
The ladder boldly mounts,
And daring deeds performs :
No ditch or bulwark heeds,
But unwards fights his way,
Till Victory crowns his deeds,
Or Mercy bids him stay.
Should cruel steel, or luckless shot,
With fatal aim, his breast invade,
With manly firmness takes his lot,
And though in pain, is not dismay'd:
Though bleeding comrades round him lie,
And thoughts of home his mind oppress,
For them he heaves the gen'rous sigh,
Regardless of his own distress.
But should the exulting shout,
Announce the battle won,
His fleeting soul recal,
To turn his glass nigh run,
The last remains of life
He musters in a breath-
And like a Briton brave,
Huzza'ing, meet his death.
Air-" Dennis don't be threatening."
NAY tell me not dear! that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret ;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
Ne'er hath a beam,
Been lost in the stream,
That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The bliss of thy sighs,
The light of thine eyes,
Shall float on the surface and hallow my Bowl!
Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me!
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.
They tell us that Love in his fairy bower,
Had two blush-roses of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
And bathed the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds,ita. esanikio dai
That drank of the floods,
Listill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade;
While those which the tide
All blush'd into beauty, like thee sweet maid ! Than fancy not dearest! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me;T Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.
PEACE AND HEALTH TO THEE, TOM MOORE.
My bark is on the sea;
But ere I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee.
Here's a sigh for those I love,
And a smile for those I hate,
And, whatever skies above,
Here's a heart for any fate.
Though the ocean roars around me,
It still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won, /
Where it the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd on the brink,
Ere my fainting spirits fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink.
In that water, as this wine
The libation I would pour,
Should be-Peace to thee and thine,
And a Health to thee, Tom Moore.
THE ARETHUSA.
COME all you jolly sailors bold,
Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould,
While English glory I unfold,
Huzza! to the Arethusa!
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