Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Mournful cypress, verdant willow, Melancholy smooth Meander, Thus when Philomela drooping, Melody resigns to fate. Jonathan Swift. CCCLXXII. THE FLOWER. ALONE, across a foreign plain, This lovely Isle beyond the sea, Its leafy woods, its shady vales, Its moors, and purple heather; When lo! he starts, with glad surprise, With eager haste he stoops him down, Thomas Hood. CCCLXXIII. TO A FISH OF THE BROOKE. WHY flyest thou away with fear? All cover'd with a snaring bait, Alas, to tempt thee to thy fate, And dragge thee from the brooke. O harmless tenant of the flood, Perchance hath given a tender wife, Enjoy thy stream, O harmless fish; Dr. John Wolcot CCCLXXIV. SONG BY ROGERO. WHENE'ER with haggard eyes I view -niversity of Gottingen. (Weeps, and pulls out a blue 'kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds.) Sweet 'kerchief check'd with heavenly blue, Alas, Matilda then was true, At least I thought so at the U -niversity of Gottingen -niversity of Gottingen. (At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains in cadence.) Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift ye flew, Her neat post-waggon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languish'd at the U -niversity of Gottingen- This faded form! this pallid hue! -niversity of Gottingen- There first for thee my passion grew, -niversity of Gottingen- Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu, -niversity of Gottingen! -niversity of Gottingen! (During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion. Ile then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops-the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.) Anti-Jacobin. CCCLXXV. THE BURNING OF THE LOVE letter. No morning ever seem'd so long!— I tried to read with all my might! In my left hand "My Landlord's Tales," 'Twas twelve at last-my heart beat high!.- I seized the note-I flew up stairs- 'Twas full of love-to rhyme with dove- Of sweet and meet-and heart and dart- In doubt I cast it in the flame, And stood to watch the latest spark- Thomas Hood. CCCLXXVI. THE WATER PERI'S SONG. FAREWELL, farewell to my mother's own daughter, The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave! The Mussel-man coming to fish in this water, Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave. This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, This greyish Bath cloak is her funeral pall, Farewell, farewell to the child of Al Hassan, My mother's own daughter-the last of her race— She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin, And sleeps in the water that washes her face. CCCLXXVII. Thomas Hood. "PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE.” I'LL tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore: Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at, The meeting was bliss; but the parting was woe; CCCLXXVIII. IF the man who turnips cries, Samuel Johnson. |