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May I govern my passions with absolute sway,
And grow wiser and better as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more
Of the best wits that reign'd in the ages before;
With roast mutton rather than ven'son or veal,
And clean though coarse linen at every meal.
May I govern my passions with absolute sway,
And
grow

wiser and better as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

With a pudding on Sundays, with stout humming liquor,
With remnants of Latin to welcome the vicar;
With Monte Fiascone or Burgundy wine,*
To drink the king's health as oft as I dine.
May I govern my passions with absolute

sway,
And
grow

wiser and better as strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

gone,

With a courage

undaunted may I face my last day; And when I am dead may the better sort say, In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow, “ He's and has left not behind him his fellow : For he governed his passions with absolute sway, And grew

wiser and better as strength wore away, Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay." It seems odd to modern notions, that so sensible a gentleman, who governed his passions with absolute sway, should have ever “got mellow' at all. Drunkenness, however, was considered a venial vice in those days by the few who did not consider it a positive virtae “ in the evening.”

* Some versions substitute for this line the following:

“With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine."

GENTLY STIR.

A parody, attributed to Dean SWIFT, on a popular song by A. Bradley, beginning

"Gently strike the warbling lyre," by Geminiani,

GENTLY stir and blow the fire,

Lay the mutton down to roast;
Dress it quickly, I desire ;-

In the dripping put a toast,
That I hunger may remove :
Mutton is the meat I love.

On the dresser see it lie,

Oh, the charming white and red !
Finer meat ne'er met my eye,

On the sweetest grass it fed :
Let the jack go quickly round, -
Let me have it nicely brown'd.

On the table spread the cloth,

Let the knives be sharp and clean :
Pickles get and saiad both-

Let them each be fresh and green:
With small beer, good ale, and wine,
Oh, ye gods, how I shall dine !

Several attempts have been made to raise eating into the dignity, which drinking has 80 long enjoyed, of being theme for song, but all in vain. “The Roast Beef of Old England” is the only exception, amid a mass of failures.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

WILLIAM COLLINS. Set as a glee for four voices by Mrs. PARK.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew; But female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew,

The redbreast oft at evening hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gather'd flowers

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howing winds and beating rain

In tempests shake the sylvan cell, Or 'midst the chase upon the plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed; Bel till life can charm no more,

And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

SWEET MAY.

ERASMUS DARWIN, born 1721, died 1802. Born in yon blaze of orient sky,

Sweet May! thy radiant form unfold, Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye

And wave thy shadowy locks of gold.

For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow,

For thee descends the sunny shower, The rills in softer murmurs flow,

And brighter blossoms gem the bower,

Light Graces, drest in flowery wreaths,

And tiptoe Joys their hands combine, And Love his sweet contagion breathes,

And laughing dances round thy shrine,

Warm with new life, the glittering throngs,

On quivering fin and rustling wing, Delighted join their votive songs,

And hail thee Goddess of the Spring,

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“Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray

thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine

My true-love thou didst see.”

“ And how should I know

your

true-love
From many another one?"
Oh, by his cockle-hat and staff,
And by his sandal shoon.

But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curld,

And eyes of lovely blue."

“O lady, he is dead and gone!

Lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turf,

And at his heels a stones.
Within these holy cloisters long

He languish'd, and he died
Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.
They bore him barefaced on his bier, ,

Six proper youths and talli,
And many astean bedew'd

hissgraveWithin yon kirk-yard walll!!

<< And art thoualdad, thougentle youth?"

And art thou dead and gone; And didst thou die for love of me?

Break, cruel heart of stone !"

“Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so,

Some ghostly comfort seek;
Let not vain sorrows rive thy heart,

Nor tears bedew thy cheek.”

“Oh, do not, do not, holy friar,

My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth

That e'er won lady's love.

And now, alas ! for thy sad loss

I'll ever weep and sigh; For thee I only wish'd to live,

For thee I wish to die."

“ Weep no more, lady, weep no more,

Thy sorrow is in vain; For violets pluck'd, the sweetest shower

Will ne'er make grow again.

Our joys as wingèd dreams do fly,

Why then should sorrow last; Since grief but aggravates thy loss,

Grieve not for what is past.”

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