L ESSAYS ON SONG-WRITING; WITH A COLLECTION OF SUCH ENGLISH SONGS AS ARE MOST EMINENT FOR POETICAL MERIT. BY JOHN AIKIN. ■ A NEW EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS AND CORRECTIONS, AND A SUPPLEMENT, BY rFh* EVANS. PRINTED FOR R. H. EVANS," PALL-MALL, BY W. BULMER AND CO. CLEVELAND. ROW. 1810. M fftutf * 4^ 4 & ADVERTISEMENT, It is not necessary to detain the Reader long by an explanation of the motives which induced the Publisher to under- take a new edition of the following ele- gant little Work. Its merit has been universally recognized, and its scarcity has long been a subject of popular regret. The many years which have elapsed since the publication of the last Edition, seemed to leave no hope that Dr. Aikin could be prevailed on to gratify the public by a revision and enlargement of his Work. He had declined the task in the prime and vigour of life ; and he might now think it unbecoming his years, to engage in a republication of these nugce canortf.— Turpe senilis amor, the Doctor might ex- claim, and though he might be pleased to see his volume ranged by the side of vi ADVERTISEMENT. those of Percy, Ellis, and some other simi- lar publications, yet he has abandoned the friendly office of revision to other hands. The present Editor has diligently revised the text, which had been rather hastily printed in the former Editions ; he has assigned to their proper Authors the Poems which had before been erroneously ascribed, and he has annexed the Writers' names to various others which were printed as anonymous; and, lastly, he has added a Supplement, which he flat- ters himself will render this new Edi- tion a complete Collection of the best Songs in the language. The Editor feels confident, that in prefixing to this new Edition Mrs. Barbauld's Poem on the Origin of Song-Writing, he anticipates the wishes of every Reader, PREFACE On conversing with a few of my friends who were lovers of Poetry, I have fre- quently joined them in lamenting that the number of excellent Songs which our language afforded, were so dispersed through a variety of authors, or over- whelmed in injudicious Collections, that it was a most difficult matter to discover and enjoy the riches of this kind which we possessed. We observed that every collection of Songs, without exception, was degraded by dullness, or debased by in- decency ; and that Song* Writing scarcely seemed in any of them to be considered as a pleasing species of poetical composi- tion, but merely as serving for the con- veyance of some favourite Tunes. We were concerned to find that the more viir PREFACE. modern any Collection was, it was re- markably the more deficient in poetical merit; so .that a total decay of all taste for genuine Poetry, in this pleasing branch of it, was to be apprehended. This we in great measure attributed to the fashion- able rage for Music, which had encou- raged such a mushroom growth of Comic Operas, that vile mongrel of the Drama, where the most enchanting Tunes are suited with the most flat and wretched combinations of words that ever disgraced the genius of a nation; and "where the miserable versifier only appears as the hired underling of a Musical Composer. We thought, therefore, that it would be a meritorious piece of service to the cause of Poetry, by uniting into one firm body the most excellent productions in Song- Writing, to form a barrier against the modish insipidity of the age, and to gra- tify such real lovers of genius as yet re- main amongst us. This task I was induced to undertake; and were I to make a boastful recital of the numerous volumes of Song- Collections PREFACE. ix and Miscellany Poems which I have turned over for the purpose, it would show that industry at least had not been wanting in accomplishing it. This kind of praise, however, is of so inferior a na- ture, that ; I confess, it would scarcely satisfy my ambition. During the progress of my researches, I was insensibly led to make some remarks on the peculiar char- acter and diversities of the pieces which passed in review before me, and to form comparisons between them and others, the produce of a different age and country. As the subject had novelty to recommend it, and was suited to my inclinations, I was incited to pursue it to a length which seemed to render it lawful for me to take the title of an Essayist, instead of a mere Compiler. If the attempts which should support this more honourable character have not the fortune to meet with appro- bation, I must be contented with my humble endeavours to please by the merits of others ; yet I cannot acknowledge any impropriety in the design, well remem- bering that Horace promises his friends x PREFACE. not only to present them with verse, but to tell them the worth of his present. It may perhaps be a matter of surprise, that after so much labour I have not been able to furnish a larger Collection than is here offered ; but on considering the manner in which these pieces have been ushered into the world, the wonder will cease. The chief sources of good Songs, are the Miscellany Poems and Plays from the time of Charles the Second, to the conclusion of Queen Anne's reign. Most of these were given in the earliest Col- lections, mixed however with the trash of the times, and copied from one to another with no farther variation than substitut- ing new trash for such as was out of date. In the most modern Collections, all the beauties, as well as the insipid Pieces of the early ones are discarded, and the whole is made up of favourite airs from the fashionable Comic Operas of the win- ter, and the summer warblings at Vaux- hall, Ranelagh, and Spring Gardens ; so that in a year's time they are as much out of date as an Almanack. From this PREFACE. xi account it will be perceived, that after making use of one of the best old Collec- tions as a standard, all the rest were little more than mere repetitions; and that the very modern ones were entirely useless. After all, I would not presume to say that I have culled every valuable produc- tion which this branch of Poetry affords. Difference of taste will always prevent uniformity of judgment, even where the faculties of judging are equal ; and I have been much less solicitous to give a Collec- tion to which nothing could be added, than one from which nothing could reasonably be rejected. In Song-Writing, as well as in every other production of art, there is a large class of the mediocres, which are of such dubious merit, as would allow the Reader to hesitate in his approbation of them. I have felt very little scruple in rejecting a number of these. It is not enough that Poetry does not disgust, it ought to give raptures. A much more disagreeable piece of severity was the re- jection of several Pieces, marked with a rich vein of genuine Poetry, but not suf- xii PREFACE. ficiently guarded from offending that charming delicacy of the sex, which every man must admire, and ought to respect. These were the luxuriances of an age, when the men of pleasure lavished wit and genius, as well as health and fortune, upon their diversions. Had they lived at a time when taste was more refined, and manners were less licentious, their natural gallantry would have restrained them from offering an outrage to those, whom they most wished for readers and admirers. I -hope I have now said enough to inti- mate for what class of readers this Work is calculated. The soft warbler, who fills up a vacancy of thought with a tune, in which the succession of words gives no idea but that of a succession of sounds, will here be much disappointed in meet- ing with the names of Prior, Congreve, and Landsdowne, instead of Arne, Brent, and Tenducci. The midnight roarer of coarse jest and obscenity will be still far-- ther out of his element. But to those who are enamoured with that sacred art, which beyond every other elevates and PREFACE. xiii refines the soul, to whom the sprightly lyre of Horace and Anacreon, and the melting music of Sappho still sound, though ages have passed since they vibrated on the ear, I will venture to promise a source of enjoyment, from the Works of those great masters whose names adorn this Collection, which I hope they will not think too dearly purchased by the perusal of such introductory matter as is submitted to their candid examin- ation. A TABLE OF FIRST LINES. A chieftain to the Highlands bound - - 29T A nymph of every charm possess'd - 30T Ah ! Chloris could I now but sit - - - 222 Ah ! cruel maid how hast thou chang'd - - 279 Ah ! how sweet it is to love - 328 Ah ! the shepherd's mournful fate - * 103 Ah ! why must words my flame reveal - 110 Alexis shunn'd his fellow swains - - 6T All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd - 58 All my past life is mine no more - - . . 203 An amorous swain to Juno pray'd - - - 206 As Amoret with Phyllis sat - - - 1 50 As Ariana, young and fair, - 235 As Granville's soft numbers tune Myra's just praise 316 As near a weeping spring reciin'd - - 116 As on a summer's day - - - - 65 As the snow in vallies lying - 218 Ask if yon damask rose be sweet - 326 Ask me why I send you here - - 348 Ask'st thou how long my love shall stay - 280 Aspasia rolls her sparkling eyes - 254 At Cynthia's feet I pray'd, I wept - 238 Away, let nougnt to love displeasing - 159 Away with these self-loving lads - ■> - 264 Bid me when forty winters more Blest as th' immortal gods is he 152 101 xvi A TABLE OF FIRST LINES. Boast not, mistaken swain, thy art - - - 188 Bow the head, thou lily fair - 251 By the gaily circling glass - 341 Can love be controll'd by advice - - - 151 Celia hoard thy charms no more - - 216 Celia too late you would repent - - - 219 Chloe brisk and gay appears - - - 213 Chloe's the wonder of her sex - - - 211 Clitoris yourself you so excel - - - 23T Come all ) e youths whose hearts e'er bled - 13T Come gentle god of soft repose - - - 253 Come here fond youth, whoe'er thou be - 112 Come, Leila, fill the goblet up - - 299 Come little infant love me now - - - 225 Come live witE me and be my love - - 302 Come shepherds we '11 follow the hearse - 91 Corinna cost me many a prayer - 203 Cruel invader of my rest - 350 Cupid instruct an amorous swain - 208 Cynthia frowns whene'er I woo her - - 192 Damon, if you will believe me - - 197 Daphnis stood pensive in the shade - - 60 Dear Chloe what means this disdain - - 314 Dear Chloe while thus beyond measure -"' - . 157 Dear Colin prevent my warm blushes - - 200 Dear is my little native vale - 347 Despairing beside a clear stream - - 62 Drink to me only with thine eyes - 263 Encompass'd in an angel's frame - - - 351 Fair Amoret is gone astray - - - 193 Fair and soft, and gay and young - 145 Far in the windings of a vale - - - 73 A TABLE OF FIRST LINES. xvii Fly, thoughtless youth, th' enchantress fly 1 34 For ever, Fortune, will thou prove - - 155 For tenderness frara'd in life's early day - - 309 From all uneasy passions free - - - 133 From anxious zeal and factious strife - • - SCO From place to place forlorn I go - - 143 Gentle air, thou breath of lovers - - . - 226 Gently touch the warbling lyre > 326 Good madam, when ladies are willing - - 201 Good morrow to the day so fair - 305 Go plaintive souns, and to the fair - - - 129 Go tell Amynta, gentle swain - - 104 Had I a heart for falsehood framed - - 310 Hail to the myrtle shade - - - 124 Hard is the fate of him who loves - 306 Hark, hark, 'tis a voice from the tomb - 295 How blest has my time been, what days have I known 274 How yonder ivy courts the oak - - - 318 I cannot change as others do - - 329 I did but look and love awhile - 278 I envy not the proud their wealth - 346 I ne'er could any lustre see - 312 I never knew a sprightly fair - - - 277 I prithee send me back my heart - = 330 I smile at love and all his arts - 284 If all the world and love were young - v - 303 If ever thou didst joy to bind - - -• 114 If the quick spirit of your eye - 220 If truth can fix the wavering heart - - 333 If wine and music have the power - - - 108 I'll range around the shady bow'rs - - 285 In a cottage emhosom'd within a deep shade - 335 In Chloris all soft charms agree - - 194 b XV 111 A TABLE OF FIRST LINES* In vain, dear Chloe, you suggest I tell thee, Charmion, could I time retrieve It is not, Celia, in our power It was a friar of order gray 241 196 191 37 Late when love I seem'd to slight Let not love on me bestow Let the ambitious favor find Love and folly were at play Love's a dream of mighty treasure Love's but the frailty of the mind 221 199 132 206 208 193 Mistaken fair, lay Sherlock by . - - - 210 Mortals learn your lives to measure - - 151 My banks they are furnish'd with bees - - 84 My days have been so wonderous free ■ - - 331 My dear mistress has a heart - - - 131 My !ove was fickle once and changing - - 189 My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, - 267 My temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine - 339 My time, O ye Muses ! was happily spent - - 268 Not, Celia, that I juster am Now see my goddess, earthly born 190 121 Nancy, wilt thou go with me - - - 161 young Lochinvar is gone out of the West - . 337 O'er moorlands and mountains rude barren and bare 80 Of all the girls that are so smart - - 282 / Of Leinster fam'd for maidens fair - - 49 Oft on the troubled ocean's face ... 134 Oh had my love ne'er smil'd on me -^ - 311 Oh how vain is every blessing - 351 Oh turn away those cruel eyes - - - 214 On a bank beside a willow - . - 138 On Belvidera's bosom lying - - - 18 A TABLE OF FIRST LINES. xix One morning very early, one morning in the spring 69 One parting kiss my Ethelinde - 247" Prepard to rail, resolv'd to part - - - 136 Pursuing beauty men descry - 230 Sabla, thou saw'st the exulting foe - - 348 Say, lovely dream, where couldst thou find - 223 Say, Myra, why is gentle love - - - - 191 Say not Olinda I despise. - - 156 Says Plato why should man be vain - 340 She loves and she confesses too - - 227 Should some perverse malignant star - - 242 Sigh no more ladies, ladies sigh no more - - 260 Stella and Flavia every hour - - 231 Strephon has fashion, wit, and youth - - 238 Strephon, when you see me fly - - - 119 Swain thy hopeless passion smother - - 207 Sweet are the charms of her I love - 265 Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight - 342 Take, oh, take those lips away - - 261 Tell me, Damon, dost thou languish - 322 Tell me no more I am deceived - 209 Tell me not how fair she is - 324 Tell me not I my time misspend - 153 Tell me no more of pointed darts - - 345 Tell my Strephon that I die - - 143 The boatmen shout, 'tis time to part - - 2T6 The day is departed and round from the cloud - 272 The Graces and the wand'ring Loves - - 223 The heavy hours are almost past - - 107 The merchant, to secure his treasure - - 215 The nymph that I lov'd was as cheerful as day - 315 The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r - 281 The shape and face let others prize - - 334 xx A TABLE OF FIRST LINES, There is one dark and sullen hour - - 144 The sun was sunk beneath the hill - - 70 The western sky was purpled o'er. - - 77 This bottle's the sun of our table - - 342 Tho' cruel you seem to my pain - - 146 Thy fatal shafts unerring move - - 102 'Tis not the liquid brightness of these eyes - 123 'Tis now since I sat down before - - 228 To all you Ladies now at land - 291 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb - 140 Too plain, dear youth, those tell-tale eyes - - 1 IT To the brook and the willow that heard him complain 139 Turn, gentle hermit of the dale 42 'Twas when the seas were roaring - 56 Vain are the charms of white and red - - 212 Waft me, soft and cooling breeze, - - - 125 Wake, ye nightingales, oh wake - - 313 Waken, Lords and Ladies gay - - 300 We ail to conquering beauty bow - - 273 What, put off with one denial - - 198 When all was wrapt in dark midnight - 53 When charming Teraminta sings - - 131 When Damon languish'd at my feet - 319 When daisies pied and -violets blue - - - 259 When Delia on the plain appears - - 109 When first I dar'd by soft surprise - 275 When first I saw Lucinda's face - 236 When first I saw thee graceful move - - 120 When first I sought fair Celia's love - - 202 When first upon your tender cheek - 234 When gay Philander fell a prize - - 287 When gentle Celia first I knew - - 232 When here Lucinda first we came - - 141 When lovely woman stoops to folly - - 142 A TABLE OF FIRST LINES. xxi When Orpheus went down to the regions below 211 When Sappho tun'd the rapturd strain - - 128 When your beauty appears - - 149 Where the bee sucks, there lurk I - -- 259 While in the bower with beauty blest - 1ST Why, cruel creature, why so bent - 154 Why heaves my fond bosom ! ah, what can it mean 321 Why we love and why we hate - - 199 Why will Florella, while I gaze - 243 Why will you my passion reprove, - - 8T Wine, wine in the morning - - - 240 With amorous^ wiles and perjur'd eyes - 288 With women I have pass'd my days - - 289 Would you taste the noontide air - - 32T Wrong not, sweet Mistress of my heart - - 261 Ye happy swains whose hearts are free - - 148 Ye little loves that ronnd her wait - - - 205 Yes, fairest proof of beauty's power - - 105 Yes, Ful via is like Venus fair - - - - 195 Ye shepherds and nymphs that adorn the gay plain 14T Ye shepherds give ear to my lay 89 Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay . - 82 Ye virgin Powers defend my heart - 325 Yes, I'm in love, I feel it now - - 204 You tell me I'm handsome, I know not how true 294 Young I am, and yet unskill'd - - 156 4 [ xxii ] NAMES OF AUTHORS, WITH REFERENCES. Addison, 189, Akenside, 334. Earbauld, Mrs. 112, 114, 116, 232, 234, 247, 251, 253, 254. Berkeley, 151, Booth, Barton, 265. Brook, Lord, 264. Brown, Tom, 240. Bradley, 326, Buckingham, Sheffield D. of, 133. Burgoyne, 309. Byrom, 268. Campbell, 297. Carey, Henry, 146, 282, 285. Carlyle, 276, 277, 299. Carter, 155. Chesterfield, E. of, 210. Collins, 140. Congreve, 192, 193, 196, 209. Cooper, Gilbert, 159, 314, 315. Cowley, 227. Cowper, 281. Croxall, 125. Cunningham, 80, 91. Dorset, E. of, 132,141,291. NAMES OF AUTHORS. xxiii Dryden, 104, 138,328. Dryden, Charles, 235. Elliott, Sir G. 26T. Etheridge, 148, 191. Falconer, 307. Gay, 56, 58, 60. Garrick, 333. Goldsmith, 42, 142. Hamilton, 103, 129, 14T. Herrick, 305. How, John, 194. Jenyns, Soame, 117, 202. Jones, Sir W. 313. Jonson, Ben, 263. King (Bp. of Chichester), 324. Lansdowne, Lord, 136, 154, 211. Lee, 124 Lisle, 211. Logan, 272. Lyttelton, Lord 107, 109, 191. Mallett, 53, 73. Marlow, 302. Marvell, 225. Mason, 275. Milton, 327. Montague, Lady M. W. 200. Moore, E. 274, 294, 295. xxir NAMES OF AUTHORS. Otway, 1ST, 298. Farnell, 149,-331. Percy, 37, 161. Phillips, 101, 187, 188, 199. Pilkinston, Rev. M. 340. ■ Mrs. 231, 346. Prior, 67, 105, 106, 108, 215. Pulteney, 212. Raleigh, 261, 303. Rochester, E. of 131, 203, 329. Rowe, 62, 65, 139. Scott, Walter, 337. Sedley, 150, 190, 197. Shakspeare, 259, 260, 261. Shenstone, 77, 82, 84, 87, 89, 195. Sheridan, 279, 280, 310, 311, 314, 342. Smollett, 102, 128. Steel, 143, 199. Suckling, 228, 330. Taylor, Mrs. 238, 325. Theobald, 134. Thomson, 306. Tickell, 49. Vanbrugh, 284. Waller, 223, 237. Walsh, 219. Way, 318. Whitehead, 204, 316. Yonge, Sir W. 201, 241. THE ORIGIN OF SONG-WRITING. Addressed to Dr. Aikin. [Mrs. Barbauld.] Illic indocto primum se exercuit arcu ; Hei mihi quam doctas nunc habet ille manus ! Tibullus. When Cupid, wanton boy, was young, His wings unfledg'd, and rude his tongue,, He loiter' d in Arcadian bowers, And hid his bow in wreaths of flowers ; Or pierc'd some fond unguarded heart, With now and then a random dart -, But heroes scorn'd the idle boy, And love was but a shepherd's toy : When Venus, vex'd to see her child Amid the forests thus run wild, Would point him out some nobler game, Gods, and godlike men to tame. She seiz'd the boy's reluctant hand, And led him to the virgin band, Where the sister Muses round Swell the deep majestic sound ; And in solemn strains unite, Breathing chaste, severe delight ; e xxvi ORIGIN OF SONG- WRITING. Songs of chiefs, and heroes old, In unsubmitting virtue bold ; Of even valour's temperate heat, And toils to stubborn patience sweet ; Of nodding plumes, and burnish'd arms, And glory's bright terrific charms. The potent sounds like lightning dart Resistless thro' the glowing heart; Of power to lift the fixed soul High o'er fortune's proud controul ; Kindling deep, prophetic musing; Love of beauteous death infusing; Scorn, and^ unconquerable hate Of tyrant pride's unhallow'd state. The boy abash 'd, and half afraid, Beheld each chaste immortal maid \ Pallas spread her Egis there ; Mars stood by with threatening air ; And stern Diana's icy look With sudden chill his bosom struck. Daughters of Jove, receive the child, The queen of beauty said, and smil'd j Her rosy breath perfum'd the air, And scatter 'd sweet contagion there 5 Relenting nature learn'd to languish ; And sicken'd with delightful anguish : Receive him, artless yet and young ; Refine his air, and smooth his tongue : ORIGIN OF SONG-WRITING. xxvii Conduct him thro' your fav'rite bowers, Enrich'd with fair perennial flowers, To solemn shades and springs that lie Remote from each unhallow'd eye ; Teach him to spell those mystic names That kindle bright immortal flames ; And guide his young unpractised feet To reach coy learning's lofty seat. Ah, luckless hour ! mistaken maids ! When Cupid sought the Muses' shades : Of their sweetest notes beguil'd, By the sly insidious child ; Now of power his darts are found, Twice ten thousand times to wound. Now no more the slacken 'd strings Breathes of high immortal things, But Cupid tunes the Muse's lyre To languid notes of soft desire. In ev'ry clime, in ev'ry tongue, *Tis love inspires the poet's song : Hence Sappho's soft infectious page; Monimia's woe ; Othello's rage ; Abandon'd Dido's fruitless prayer ; And Eloisa's long despair : The garland bless'd with many a vow, For haughty Sacharissa's brow ; And, wash'd with tears, the mournful verse That Petrarch laid on Laura's herse. xxviii ORIGIN OF SONG- WRITING. But more than all the sister quire, Music confessed the pleasing fire. Here sovereign Cupid reign'd alone ; Music and Song were all his own. Sweet as in old Arcadian plains, The British pipe has caught the strains ; And where the Tweed's pure current glides, Or lofty rolls her limpid tides, Or Thames his oozy waters leads Thro' rural howers, or yellow meads, With many an old romantic tale Has cheer'd the lone sequester'd vale, With many a sweet and tender lay Deceiv'd the tiresome summer day. Tis your's to cull with happy art Each meaning verse that speaks the heart, And fair array'd, in order meet, To lay the wreath at Beauty's feet. ESSAY ON SONG-WRITING IN GENERAL. W h i l e the two capital species of poetry, the epic and dramatic, have long engaged the nicest attention of taste and criticism, the humbler but not less pleas- ing productions of the Muse have not obtained that notice from the critic to which the exertions of the poet would seem to entitle them. This will appear the more extraordinary when we reflect that some of the most excellent produc- tions in the former have been the sponta- neous growth of a rude and uncultivated B 2 ON SONG- WRITING soil, whereas the latter have never flou- rished without acquired richness in the soil and the fostering hand of art. This critical neglect has given rise to uncer- tainty in the distinctions, and irregularity in the composition of most of the minor classes of poetry ; and while the long established divisions of ode, elegy, and epigram, are involved in these difficulties, it is not a matter of wonder to meet with them in the modern pieces which range under the general title of Songs. Although many of our most celebrated poets have exercised their talents in com- posing these little pieces, and their pleas- ing effect is universally known and ac- knowledged, yet have we but one pro- fessed criticism on their composition ; and this, though elegant and ingenious, is both too short and too superficial to give precision and accuracy to our ideas on this subject. It is contained in a paper of the Guardian, written by Mr. Phillips. In attempting the task of determining IN GENERAL. 3 with exactness the nature of song-writ- ing, and the various distinctions of which it is susceptible, together with the specific excellence of each, I find it therefore necessary to go far back into the origin of poetry in general, and to recur to those first principles existing in the human mind, which alone can give a firm foun- dation to our deductions. The original poetry of all nations must have been very much confined to the de- scription of external objects, and the narration of events. This is a necessary consequence of the barrenness of infant language with regard to abstract ideas, and is confirmed by the remains of anti- quity which have reached us. Among a fierce and warlike people constantly en- gaged in enterprises of arms, poetry was solely employed in rehearsing the valo- rous deeds of their heroes ; and the horrid pictures of w r ar and desolation were enlivened by the kindred ima- gery of whatever nature afforded of the awful, terrific and stupendous. In happier 4 ON SONG WRITING regions, where the mild inhabitants were suited to the softness and luxury of the climate, the business of poetry was to paint the surrounding profusion of beau- tiful objects, the pleasing incidents of a pastoral life, the tender cares and ravish- ing delights of love. This passion found as apt a comparison with the beautiful scenes of nature, as war and destruction could do with its glooms and horrors. Ossian and Theocritus will afford com- plete instances of the first poetry in its two different branches. Mingling storms, roaring torrents, swelling oceans, light- ning and thunder, paint the dreadful battle pieces of the Caledonian ; while the murmuring brook, the green meadow, the bleating flock, the simple shepherd and his artless fair, deck out the rural landscape of the Grecian. Thus heroic and pastoral poetry are at first formed, consisting chiefly of description and ima- gery. The passion of military glory in the one, and of love in the other, would indeed add sentiment to the picture, bu't IN GENERAL. 5 even these sentiments must be expressed by a reference to external objects. The lover who had sought for natural compa- risons to paint the charms of his mistress, must seek for others to express the emo- tions of his mind. He must burn with desire, and. freeze with disdain ; rage with the ocean, and sigh with the zephyr ; hope must enlighten him with its rays, and de- spair darken him with its glooin. The effects which the passions produce upon the body, would also prove a happy source of the description of emotions. Thus, the fluttering pulse, the changing colour, the feverish glow, the failing heart, and the confused senses, being natural and inva- riable symptoms of the passion of love, would soon be observed by the poet, and successfully used to heighten his descrip- tion. Hitherto all is simple and natural, and poetry, so far from being the art of fiction, is the faithful copyist of external objects and real emotions. But the mind of man cannot long be confined within prescribed limits ; there is an internal eye 6 ON SONG-WRITING constantly stretching its view beyond the bounds of natural vision, and something new, something greater, more beautiful, more excellent, is required to gratify its noble longing. This eye of the mind is the imagination — it peoples the world with new beings, it embodies abstract ideas, it suggests unexpected resemblances, it creates first, and then presides over its creation with absolute sway. Not less accurately and philosophically, than poeti- cally, has our great Shakspeare described this faculty in the following lines. The Poet's eye in a fine phrenzy rolling Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, And as imagination bodies forth The form of things unknown, the Poet's pen Turns them to shape, and gives to aery nothing A local habitation and a name. The most essential differences in poeti- cal composition may be referred to the cir- cumstance of its turning upon nature or fiction, and on this will depend its fitness or unfitness to produce peculiar effects. IN GENERAL. 7 In genera], whatever is designed to move the passions, cannot be too natural and simple. It is also evident, that when the professed design of the poet is to paint the beauties of nature and the rural land- scape of pastoral life, he must give as great an air of reality as possible to his piece, since a bad imitation necessarily produces disgust. On the other hand, when the aim is to elevate and surprise, to gratify a love of novelty, and the pleas- ing luxury of indulging the fancy > all the powers of fiction must be set at work, and the imagination employed without con- trol to create new images, and discover uncommon resemblances and connections. To pursue our instance taken from the passion of love ; the poet who wishes rather to please and surprise than to move, will ransack heaven and earth for objects of brilliant and unusual comparison with every circumstance relating to the pas- sion itself or its object. He will not value sentiment as the real offspring of an emo- tion, but as susceptible of ingenious turns, 8 ON SONG-WRITING striking contrasts and pleasing allusions. He will not compose from the heart but the head, and will consult his imagination rather than his sensations. This quality is peculiarly termed wit, and a just taste for it is never acquired without a consi- derable degree of national refinement. Pieces of wit are therefore later in their date than any others. This brief account of the progress of poetry in general being premised, let us proceed to a nearer inspection of our sub- ject. In attempting to fix a meaning to the word song, the first idea which strikes us arises from its name, signifying some- thing to be sung. We shall discuss this a little at large. The union of music with poetry must appear extremely natural. We find it to have taken place universally in the uncul- tivated state of all nations, and to have continued partially in the most refined. In all languages the words expressing vocal music have been also used indiscri- IN GENERAL. 9 minately to signify poetry ; and though we at present consider such expressions as figurative, there is no doubt but they were originally natural. The sacred name of song was not then prostituted to a suc- cession of unmeaning sounds tortured into music through the odious pipe of an equivocal mutilated animal ; it was a ge- neral term to express all that the sister Muses of poetry and melody could com- bine to delight the ear, and ravish the heart. This enchanting union is now in great measure dissolved, yet I will ven- ture to assert that it was not poetry, but her less sentimental companion, music who began the separation. The luxury of artificial harmony, taking place of the simple graces of melody, rendered instru- mental music chiefly sought after, and the assistance of poetry in consequence unnecessary. The present age is charac- terised by a languid, sensual indolence, averse even in its pleasures to any thing that requires attention of the mind. The ear, instead of being an avenue to the 10 ON SONG WRITING heart, expects to be gratified merely as an organ of sense, and the heroine, poetry, must give place to the harlot, music. And when the latter has deigned to borrow the vehicle of words, she has shown by her choice that she has regarded poetry rather as a burden upon her exertions than an assistant. The term song may therefore be con- sidered in a double sense — if the idea of music prevails, it signifies no more than a set of words calculated for adaptation to a tune : if poetry be the principal object, it is a species of poetical composition re- gulated by peculiar laws, and susceptible of a certain definition; still however re- taining so much of the musical idea, as to make it an essential circumstance, that by a regularly returning measure it be capable of being set to a tune. A song, as a poetical composition, may be defined, a short piece, divided into returning portions of measure, and formed upon a single incident, thought, or senti- ment. Under this definition the general IN GENERAL. 11 subject from which the particular topic is taken is not restricted ; but it has been found that emotions of tenderness and gaiety are peculiarly adapted to song- writing. Custom therefore has almost solely confined the general subject of songs to love and wine, and it must be acknowledged that the nature of the com- position, and the assistance of music, con- tribute to give these subjects a peculiar air of gracefulness and propriety. A number of distinctions have been formed in modern poetry from trifling particularities in the versification of these pieces, such as the number of lines com- posing a stanza, the repetition of a line at regular distances, the ordonnance of the rhyme, and the like. The laborious Baron Bielfield, in his Eleme?its of universal Erudition,ha.s thought it -worth while to particularize a great va- riety of these distinctions in French poe- try, such as the Sonnet, the Rondeau, the Vaudeville, &c. I cannot but consider these petty diversities as very unessential 12 ON SONG-WRITING to the poetical character of any compo- sition ; this cursory mention is therefore all the notice I shall bestow on them. If we examine the poetical remains of antiquity, we shall find various examples of pieces which come under the forego- ing description of a song. That beautiful relique of Sappho, which is well known to the English reader, by Mr. Phillips's ex- cellent translation, a Blest as the immortal Gods is he," &c. is an exact model of song-writinp\ The poems of the gay and sprightly Anacreon are almost all songs in every respect, ex- cept the measure, which instead of being divided into returning stanzas, is uni- form. Yet this would not necessarily disqualify it for musical adaptation, and there is no doubt but they were really sung and accompanied with instrumental music. The Odes of Horace contain many beautiful specimens of the song complete in every circumstance. All these pieces are handed down to us under IN GENERAL. 13 the denomination of Lyric poetry, the nature of which, as intimately connected with our subject, it will be proper to ex- amine with some attention. The union of music and poety among the ancients was very strict- It would seem that they had no idea of the music of sounds without words, and they appear seldom or never to have used vocal music without accompaniment with instrumen- tal. The lyre was the favourite instru- ment for this purpose, and hence that species of poetry designed to be sung to music acquired the denomination of Lyric. Yet we have variety of proof that this term is applied with equal propriety to poetry accompanied with any other in- strument. Horace abounds with such instances — it will be sufficient to refer to his first ode ■ si neque tibias Euterpe cohibet, nee Polyhymnia Lesboura refugit tendere barbiton. Immediately after, to fix the class of poets to which he belongs, he says 14 ON SONG WRITING Quod si me Lyricis vatibus inseres. To ansM'er this purpose of musical adaptation, Lyric poetry lias always been in possession of a variety of measures, differing indeed greatly among them- selves, but all very distinguishable from the stately regular march of heroics, and the languid inequality of elegy. Thus the Anacreontic is smart and lively, the Sapphic tender and melodious, the irre- gular Pindaric suited to the sudden changes and unbounded flights of the wild various music of the passions. Ho- race affords a fine profusion of regularly returning measures suited to all the vari- eties of musical expression, many of which one can scarcely read without fall- ing into a natural music. So far Lyric poetry is characterised by its manner of composition ; will it also admit of a Character from the nature of its subjects? It has been already ob- served that the pieces of Sappho and Anacreon are formed entirely upon gay IN GENERAL. 15 and amorous topics. A beautiful variety of poems of this cast is to be met with in Horace, and he frequently mentions the peculiar suitableness of them to the Lyric muse. Thus Nos coimvia, nos prselia virginum Strictis in jurenes unguibus acrium Cantamus ......... ... Nolis Ionga ferae bella Nuniantiae, Nee dirum Hannibalem, nee Siculum mare Pceno purpureum sanguine, mollibus Aplari citharae raodis. Non hoc jocos33 conveniet lyrae. Quo Musa tendis ? desine pervicax Referre sermones Deorura, et Magna modis tenuare parvis. But what must we think of these de- clarations when he nobly breaks out " Quern virum aut heroa," &c. when he undertakes with such success to sing the great actions of Augustus, the praises of Drusus, and the poetical character of Pindar, with Pindar's own fire and sub- 16 ON SONG WRITING limity? In that beautiful ode, the 9th of the 4th book, where he sketches out the Grecian bards, his predecessors in Lyric poetry, we find the Ceaeque, Alceique minaces Stesichorique graves Camenae, as well as the wanton gaiety of Anacreon and the amorous softness of the Lesbian maid. One of the oldest pieces of Gre- cian Lyric poetry extant, is a heroic ode sung by the Athenians at their public feasts in commemoration of Harmodius and Aristogiton. The odes of Pindar ce- lebrate the victors at Olympic games, and the hymns of Callimachus rise to the praises of the Gods. From these instances it appears that Lyric poetry does not admit of any dis- tinguishing characteristic from its sub- ject, but merely from the circumstance of its accompaniment with music : thus Horace briefly defines it " verba socianda chordis." But this circumstance will in some measure influence the choice of a IN GENERAL. 17 subject, as it is evident that long conti- nued narration, the didactic part of any art or science, and satire are not suitable topics for a species of poetry which above all others is calculated to please, elevate, and surprise. If we now compare the idea here given of Lyric poetry, with what was before observed concerning song- writing, it will plainly appear that the latter is one branch of the former ; that, to wit, which in its subject is confined to gaiety and tenderness, or, to express it classically, the Sapphic and Anacreontic. The graver and subiirner strains of the Lyric Muse are exemplified in the modern ode, a spe- cies of composition which admits of the boldest flights of poetical enthusiasm, and the wildest creations of the imagination, and requires the assistance of every figure that can adorn language, and raise it above its ordinary pitch. Critics have very commonly lamented that the moderns fall short of the ancients more particularly in this species of poetry c * 18 ON SONG-WRITING than in any other; yet, did it belong to my present subject, I should not despair of convincing an impartial reader, that the English names of Dryden, Gray, Akenside, Mason, Collins, Warton, are not inferior in real poetical elevation to the most renowned Grecian or Roman antiquity can produce. The modern ode and the song are in general distinguish- able by their subject, by the different degree of elevation and ornament in the language, and by a greater length and irregularity in the measure of the former, which is not adapted to vocal music. Yet as these distinctions are rather relative than absolute, it is easy to see that they may approach each others limits so as to render it dubious under which class they range, which would be the case with many of Horace's odes if converted to English poems. We are now prepared to make use of the general deduction of the progress of the mind through the different stages of poetical composition, formerly attempted, IN GENERAL. 19 in forming an arrangement of songs into a few distinct classes. The rude original pastoral poetry of our country furnishes the first class in the popular pieces called Ballads. These consist of the Village Tale, the Dialogue of Rustic Courtship, the Description of Natural Objects, and the Incidents of a Rural Life. Their language is the lan- guage of nature, simple and unadorned ; their story is not the wild offspring of fancy, but the probable adventure of the cottage ; and their sentiments are the unstudied expressions of passions and emotions common to all mankind. Nature, farther refined, but still nature, gives the second class of pieces contain- ing the sentimental part of the former, abstracted from the Tale and Rural Land- scape, and improved by a more studied observation of the internal feelings of passion and their external symptoms. It is the natural philosophy of the mind, and the description of sensations. Here love appears in all its various forms of 20 ON SONG-WRITING desire, doubt, jealousy, hope, despair; and suggests a language, rich, strong, and figurative. This is what may strictly be called the pathetic in poetry. The third class is formed upon an arti- ficial turn of thinking, and the operation ■of the -fancy. Here the sentiments arise from cool reflection and curious specula- tion, rather than from a present emotion. They accordingly require enlivening by ingenious comparison, striking contrast, unexpected turns, a climax finishing in a point, and all the pleasing refinements of art which give the denomination of inge- nious and witty to our conceptions. Some essential distinctions will appear in this class arising from the various kinds of wit-; but they all agree in the circum- stance of springing rather from fancy than passion, and consequently of excit- ing pleasure and surprise rather than the sympathetic emotions. It is observable that it is this class alone which answers the idea Mr. Phillips gives .of song-writing in his little Essay; and IN GENERAL. 21 hence he has been betrayed into a little inconsistency ; for while he compares song-writing in general to the gay and amorous species of ancient Lyric poetry, he refers us to the French Songs, as ex- amples of perfection, which are almost solely of the witty and ingenious kind, and totally different from most of the re- mains of antiquity. In particular, the little epigrammatic song which he there cites and translates, is so entirely dissi- milar to the celebrated piece of Sappho which he has so happily made his own, that it is wonderful the distinction did not strike him. I shall just farther remark with regard to the proposed arrangement of our collec- tion, that when genius is left to itself with- out fixed laws to conduct it, each different species of writing is so apt by impercep- tible gradations to slide into the next in kindred, that it is frequently impossible for the critic to preserve his classes pure and free from mixture, without a too scrupulous rejection of pieces really beau- 22 ON SONG-WRITING, &c. tiful, though somewhat faulty in regula- rity. The reader will easily perceive, and I hope make proper allowances for several instances of equivocal arrange- ment, which from this cause I have not been able to avoid. [23 ] ESSAY ON BALLADS AND PASTORAL SONGS. 1 h e Ballad may be considered as the native species of Poetry of this country. It very exactly answers the idea formerly given of original Poetry, being the rude uncultivated verse in which the popular tale of the times was recorded. As our ancestors partook of the fierce warlike character of the northern nations, the subjects of their Poetry would chiefly consist of the martial exploits of their heroes, and the military events of national history, deeply tinctured with that passion 24 ON BALLADS AND for the marvellous, and that superstitious credulity, which always attend a state of ignorance and barbarism. Many of the antient Ballads have been transmitted to the present times, and in them the char- acter of the nation displays itself in strik- ing colours. The boastful history of her victories, the prowess of her favourite kings and captains, and the wonderful adventures of the legendary saint and knight errant, are the topics of the rough rhyme and unadorned narration which was ever the delight of the vulgar, and is now an object of curiosity to the anti- quarian and man of taste. As it is not my design to collect pieces of this sort, which is already done in a very elegant manner by Dr. Percy, in his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, I shall proceed to consider the Ballad more as an artificial than a natural species of composition. When language became refined, and poetical taste elevated, by an acquaintance with the Greek and Latin authors, the subjects of the Epic Muse were no longer PASTORAL SONGS 25 drest in the homely garb of the popular Ballad, but assumed the borrowed orna- ment and stately air of heroic poetry; and every poetical attempt in the sublime and beautiful cast was an imitation of the classic models. The native Poetry of the country was reserved merely for the humourous and burlesque; and the term Ballad was brought by custom to signify a comic story, told in low familiar lan- guage, and accompanied with a droll tri- vial tune. It was much used by the wits of the time as a vehicle for laughable ridicule, and mirthful satire ; and a great variety of the most pleasing specimens of this kind of writing is to be found in the Ballads of the witty aera of English genius, which I take to be comprehended be- tween the beginning of Charles the Se- cond's reign, and the times of Swift and Prior. Since that period the genius of the age has chiefly been characterised by the correct, elegant, and tender; and a real or affected taste for beautiful simplicity has almost universally prevailed. This 26 ON BALLADS AND has produced several imitations of the ancient Ballad as a serious composition, turned however in its general subject from the story of martial adventure to the pathetic tale of the peaceful village. It is a just taste, founded upon real obser- vation of nature, which enjoins simplicity of expression in every attempt to engage the sympathetic emotions ; we have many delightful examples of its success, and I hope in this collection to prove by some powerful appeals to the heart, how sweetly the ancient Ballad, judiciously imitated, is adapted to this purpose. A delicate sense of propriety, and nice judgment are required to conduct the plan of simplicity in such a manner as to retain all its beau- ties without sinking into insipidity or dis- gustful vulgarity. In general, we should aim at it rather by dropping all ornament and glitter, than by putting on an affected rusticity, and making use of antiquated expressions. We should be particularly careful that simplicity reigns in the thoughts as well as the language, a very PASTORAL SONG£. 27 essential piece of uniformity; which yet some writers of eminence have not always observed. If the piece be narrative, such circumstances of the story as tell it in the most striking manner are to be held out to view, and their effect is not to be in- terrupted by simile or metaphor, or any of the artificial prettinesses of language that may fall in his way. They have no business here; they do not accord with that string of the soul which is here to be struck. As it is absolutely essential to all imita- tions of the ancient Ballad, that the story on which they are founded, with all its circumstances and manners, should be per- fectly natural, and appropriated to our own soil, I cannot include several pieces of the pastoral kind under the title of Ballads, though very nearly resembling them in point of simplicity and style of composition. Pastoral Poetry is a native o;f happier climates, where the face of nature, and the manners of the people are widely different from those of our 28 ON BALLADS AND northern regions. What is reality on the soft Arcadian and Sicilian plains, is all fiction here ; and though by reading we may be so familiarized to these imaginary scenes as to acquire a sort of natural taste for them, yet, like the fine fruits of the south, they will never be so far naturalized to the soil, as to flourish without borrowed warmth and forced culture. The justice of this observation is sufficiently proved, by the ill success of those attempts in the mixed pastoral, where the rude speech and rough manners of our English hinds have been engrafted upon the foreign poetical character of the shepherd swain. This gave occasion to Pope's well known ridicule of Phillips ; and it is this incon- gruity of character which is the foundation of the burlesque in Gay's Shepherd's PTeek, in which some natural strokes of beautiful simplicity and the real pathetic are de- signedly paired in so odd a manner with humour and parody, that one is at a loss whether to take it as jest or earnest — whether to laugh or cry. Indeed this PASTORAL SONGS. 29 effect is also produced in his two dramatic burlesques, the Beggar's Opera, and What d'ye Call it ; for how ludicrous soever the general character of the piece may be, when he comes so near to hanging and shooting in good earnest, the joke ceases ; and I have observed the tolling of St. Pulchre's bell received by an audience with as much tragical attention, and sym- pathetic terror as that in Venice Pre- served. No attempt to naturalize pastoral poetry appears to have succeeded better than Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd : it has a con- siderable air of reality, and the descrip- tive parts, in general, are in the genuine taste of beautiful simplicity. Yet the sentiments and manners are far from being entirely proper to the characters ; and while some descend so low as to be dis- gustful, others are elevated far beyond nature. The real character of a Scottish or English shepherd is by much too coarse for Poetry. I suspect Ramsay gains a great advantage among us by writing in 30 ON BALLADS AND the Scotch dialect : this not being fami- ]iar to us, and scarcely understood, softens the harsher parts, and gives a kind of foreign air that eludes the critic's seve- rity. Some writers, in aiming at a natural simplicity of sentiment, have sunk into silliness, and have given their characters not only the innocence, but the weakness of a child. In that admirable piece of burlesque criticism, the Bathos of Scri- blerus, are some ludicrous instances of puerility of sentiment and expression from Phillips's Pastorals, and, I confess, this fault to me appears palpable in a piece which, by being introduced to notice in the Spectator, is universally known and admired — I mean the pastoral song of Colin and Phoebe. There is one point in which a pastoral writer of any country may venture to fol- low nature exactly, and with a minute nicety: this is in the scenery and de- scription. Natural objects are scarcely ever disgusting; and there is no country so unblessed as to be unprovided with an PASTORAL SONGS. 31 ample store of beauties, which must ever please in an accurate representation, inde- pendently on all fashion or peculiarity of taste. It is unpardonable in a poet to borrow these from any fountain but na- ture herself, and hereby he will most certainly avoid the mistakes and incon- gruity of imagery, which they are so apt to fall into who describe from ideas gained by reading rather than observation. The preservation of propriety in this respect is of capital importance in description, since nothing so effectually ruins the beauty of picturesque scenery, as the in- troduction of any circumstance which tends to falsify it. It awakens the mind from her dream of fancy, and the " base- less fabric of the vision" instantly va- nishes. An ingenious critic has instanced this fault from Milton's Comus, where in the Spirit's address to Sabrina, after very properly wishing, May thy brimmed wares for this Their full tribute never miss, Summer's drought or singed air Never scorch thy tresses fair, 32 ON BALLADS AND He adds, May thy billows roll ashore The beryl and the golden ore, And here and there thy banks along With groves of myrrh and cinnamon ; which have no propriety when applied to an English river. It gives me pleasure to instance the opposite beauty. Michael Drayton, an old English poet, in a pasto- ral song entitled Dowsabel, describes his shepherdess in the following comparisons. Her features all as fresh above, As is the grasse that grows by Dove, And lyth as lasse of Kent : Her skin as soft as Lemster wool, As white as snow on Peakish Hull, Or swanne that swims in Trent. He goes on in the story, This mayden in a morn betime Went forth, when May was in her prime, ' To get sweet cetywall ; The honey-suckle, the harloeke, The lily and the lady smocke, To deck her summer hall. AND PASTORAL SONGS. 33 It is impossible for description to be more lively, or more consistently proper. That there is still room for novelty in this walk has lately been agreeably shown in the pastorals of Mr. Smith, the Land- scape painter, which, however unequal and deficient in harmony and correctness, have infinitely more merit than Pope's melodious echoes of echo. Mr. Smith's pieces will also illustrate my former re- mark, that the manners and sentiments of our rural vulgar cannot be rendered pleasing subjects for poetry ; for where he paints them most naturally they are least agreeable. This then appears to be the rule of taste for modern pastoral writers — to be general in character and sentiment, but particular in description The poetical shepherd and shepherdess are characters of great uniformity ; for,, the originals having been long extinct, all have copied after the same models. The passion of love is the eternal source of pastoral sen- timent, and however various it may be B 34 ON BALLADS AND in its nature, all its changes and intrica- cies must surely be at length explored, after it has in so many ages and countries exercised the utmost abilities of human genius. Nothing therefore remains to produce novelty, but a variation of circumstances, whether relating to the subjects of the passion, or the accompanying scenery. The pastoral song formed upon the Ballad model, is capable of being made the most pleasing piece of the pastoral kind. The simplicity of language gives it an air of nature and reality, though the fictitious character be entirely kept up ; and throw- ing the subject into a little tale, gives an opportunity of novelty in description from the variety of incidents. When the story has a tender and mournful turn, the ballad simplicity has a peculiarly happy effect. Perhaps the English alone, of all the moderns, have known how to unite the most perfect simplicity with real ele- gance and poetical expression ; and it is to be hoped we shall never want taste to PASTORAL SONGS 85 relish the beauties of this kind that we are possessed of. The little collection of Ballads and Pastoral Songs here offered, contains some of the sweetest flowers of English poetry. BALLADS AND PASTORAL SONGS. FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. [By Percy.] I t was a friar of orders gray,* Walk'd forth to tell his beads ; And he met with a lady fair, Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. * In the Reltques of ancient English Poetry, Dr. Percy gives us the following Ballad, as formed upon a number of detached fragments of ancient composition, which he has attempted to fill up and throw into a little connected tale. Though his modesty has induced him to place it among his antique remains, I think it but justice to him and to my own collection to place it here as a very judicious and beautiful imitation of the ancient Ballad ; for certainly he has the best right to it, since the merit of the story is all his own, and the difficulty of interweaving the few ancient stanzas into it, and suiting his own language to them with such judgment, was greater than that of producing an en- tirely new piece. 38 BALLADS AND Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou did'st see. And how should I know your true love From many another one ? O by his cockle* hat and staff, And by his sandal shoon. But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view 3 His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, And eyne 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 stone. Within these holy cloisters long He languished, and he died, Lamenting of a lady's love, And 'plaining of her pride. * These are the distinguishing marks of a Pilgrim. The chief places of devotion being beyond the sea, the pil- grims were wont to put cockle-shells in their hats to denote the intention, or performance of their devetion. PASTORAL SONGS. 39 Here bore him barefac'd on his bier Six proper youths and tali, And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall. And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ! And art thou dead and gone ! And did'st thou die for love of me ! Break, cruel heart of stone ! O weep not, lady, weep not so ; Some ghostly comfort seek : Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, Nor tears bedew thy cheek. O 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 evermore 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 showers Will ne'er make grow again. 40 BALLADS AND Our joys as winged dreams do fly, Why then should sorrow last ? Since grief but aggravates thy loss, Grieve not for what is past. O say not so, thou holy friar ; I pray thee, say not so : For since my true love died for me, 'Tis meet my tears should flow. And will he ne'er come again ? Will he ne'er come again ? Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, For ever to remain. His cheek was redder than the rose, The com'liest youth was he : But he is dead, and laid in his grave : Alas ! and woe is me ! Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever : One foot on sea, and one on land, To one thing constant never. Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy ; For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy. PASTORAL SONGS. 41 Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so $ My love he had the truest heart : O he was ever true ! And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youth, And didst thou die for me ? Then farewell home ; for, evermore A pilgrim I will be. But first upon my true love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay, And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf, That wraps his breathless clay. Yet stay, fair lady ; rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall : See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, And drizzly rain doth fall. O stay me not, thou holy friar ; O stay me not, I pray ; No drizzly rain that falls on me, Can wash my fault away. Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears ; For see beneath this gown of gray Thy own true love appears. 42 BALLADS AND Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love These holy weeds I sought : And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought. But haply for my year of grace* Is not yet pass'd away, Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay. Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart ; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part. THE HERMIT. [By Goldsmith.] X urn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale, With hospitable ray. * Thl year of probation? or noviciate. PASTORAL SONGS. 43 For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go. Forbear, my son, the hermit cries, To tempt the dangerous gloom, For yonder phantom only flies To lure thee to thy doom. Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still ; And tho' my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows ; My rushy couch, and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn : Taught by that power that pities me, I learn to pity them. But from the mountain's grassy side, A guiltless feast I bring ; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring. 44 BALLADS AND Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ', For earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little wrong. Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, His gentle accents fell : The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay ; A refuge to the neighbouring poor, And stranger led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Requir'd a master's care ; The wicket opening with a latch, Receiv'd the harmless pair. And now when busy crowds retire To revels or to rest, The hermit trimm'd his little fire, And cheer' d his pensive guest : And spread his vegetable store, And gaily prest, and smil'd ; And skill'd in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguil'd. PASTORAL SONGS. 45 Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries 5 The cricket chirrups on the hearth j The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To sooth the. stranger's woe 5 For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the hermit 'spied, With answering cares opprest : And whence, unhappy youth, he cried, The sorrows of thy breast ? From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove ; Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love ? Alas ! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling, and decay 5 And those that prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep ? 4(5 '. BALLADS AND And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest : On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. For shame, fond youth \ thy sorrows hush. And spurn the sex, he said : But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray 'd. Surpris'd ! he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view ; Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms : The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms. And, ah, forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn, she cried ; Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude Where* heaven and you reside* But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray ; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. PASTORAL SONGS. My father liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark'd for mine, He had but only me. To win me from his tender arms Unnumber'd suitors came : Who prais'd me for imputed charms, And felt or feign'd a flame. Each hour the mercenary crowd, With richest presents strove : Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. In humble simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he \ Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refinM, Could nought of purity display, To emulate his mind. The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his, but woe is me, Their constancy was mine. 48 BALLADS AND For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain. Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret where he died. But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay ; I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die ; ? Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I. a Forbid it, Heaven ! the hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast : The wondering fair one turn'd to chide, 'Twas Edwin's self that prest. Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long lost Edwin here, Restor'd to love and thee. PASTORAL 80NGS. 43 Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev'ry care resign : And shall we never, never part, My life — my all that's mine ? No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true ; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too. COLIN AND LUCY. [By Tickcll.] Of Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair, Bright Lucy was the grace ; Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream Reflect a fairer face. Till luckless love and pining care Impair'd her rosy hue, Her coral lips, her damask cheeks, And eyes of glossy blue. 50 BALLADS AND Oh ! have you seen the lily pale When beating rains descend ? So droop'd this slow-consuming maid. Her life now near its end. By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains Take heed, ye easy fair ! Of vengeance due to broken vows, Ye perjured swains, beware ! Three times all in the dead of night, A bell was heard to ring ; And shrieking at her window thrice, The raven flappM her wing. Too well the love-lorn maiden knew The solemn-boding sound, And thus in dying words bespoke, The maidens weeping round. I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says I must not stay ; I see a hand you cannot see, Which beckons me away. By a false heart, and broken vows, In early youth I die : Was I to blame, because the bride Is twice as rich as I }■ PASTORAL SONGS. 51 Ah, Colin, give not her thy vows, Vows due to me alone ! Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, And think him all thy own ! To-morrow in the church to wed Impatient both prepare : But know, fond maid, and know, false man, That Lucy will be there. Then bear my corse, ye comrades dear, The bridegroom blithe to meet \ He in his wedding trim so gay, I in my winding sheet ! She spoke and died, her corse was borne, The bridegroom blithe to meet -, He in his wedding-trim so gay, She in her winding sheet. Oh ! what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts ? How were those nuptials kept ? The bride-men flock'd round Lucy dead, And all the village wept. Compassion, shame, remorse, despair, At once his bosom swell : The damps of death bedew'd his brows, He shook, he groan'd, he fell, 52 BALLADS AND From the vain bride, a bride no more, The varying crimson fled ; When, stretch'd beside her rival's corse, She saw her husband dead. He to his Lucy's new-made grave, Convey'd by trembling swains, One mould with her, beneath one sod, For ever now remains. Oft at this place the constant hind And plighted maid are seen : With garlands gay r and true love knots They deck the sacred green. But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art, This hallowed spot forbear ! Remember Colin's dreadful fate, And fear to meet him there. PASTORAL SONGS. 53 WILLIAM AND MARGARET. [By Mallet.] Wh e n all was wrapt in dark midnight And all were fast asleep, In glided Margaret's grimly ghost And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud, And clay-cold was her lily hand That held her sable shroud. So shall the fairest face appear, When youth and years are flown ; Such is the robe that kings must wear When death has reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower That sips the silver dew $ The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view. But love had, like the canker worm, Consum'd her early prime ; The rose grew pale, and left her cheek, She died before her time. 54 BALLADS AND Awake, she cried, thy true love-calls Come from her midnight grave ; Now let thy pity hear the maid. Thy love refused to save. This is the mirk and fearful hour When injur'd ghosts complain ; Now dreary graves give up their dead To haunt the faithless swain. Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge, and broken oath ; And give me back my maiden vow, And give me back my troth. How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake ? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break ? How could you promise love to me, And not that promise keep ? Why did you swear mine eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep ? How could you say my lips were sweet, And made the scarlet pale ? And why did I, young witless maid, Believe the flatt'ring tale ? PASTORAL SONGS. 55 That face,, alas ! no more is fair., Those lips no longer red 5 Dark are mine eyes now clos'd in deaths And ev'ry charm is fled. The hungry worm my sister is, This winding sheet I wear^ And cold and weary lasts our night Till that last morn appear. But hark 1 the cock has warn'd me hence, A long and last adieu ! Come see, false man, how low she lies That died for love of you. Now birds did sing, and morning smile And shew her glist'ring head ; Pale William shook in every limb,, And raving left his bed. He hied him to the fatal place Where Marg'ret's body lay^ And stretch' d him on the green grass turf That wrapped her breathless clay. And thrice he call'd on Marg'ret's name, And thrice he wept full sore * } Then laid his cheek to the cold earthy And word spake never more. *G BALLADS AND [By Gay.*] 1 was when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock rechVd : Wide o'er the foaming billows She cast a wishful look, Her head was crown'd with willows That trembled o'er the brook. Twelve months are gone and over, And nine long tedious days ; Why didst thou, vent'rous lover, Why didst thou trust the seas ? Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean And let a lover rest -, Ah ! what's thy troubled motion To that within my breast ? The merchant robb'd of treasure Views tempests in despair ; But what's the loss of treasure To the losing of my dear ? Should you some coast be laid on Where gold and diamonds grow, You'll find a richer maiden, But none that loves you so. * In the What D'ye call it. PASTORAL SONGS. How can they say that Nature . . ■::.--.: z ::. -in ; Why "he.: bcL-a:i. -.he water Do hideous rocks reaii- No eyes those rocks discover, That lurk beneath the ceep. To wreck :'-.e "i::'l:: lover And leave the maid to weep. .All melancholy lyin^ Thus waiTd she for her dear, Repaid each riast with sighing. Each billow with a tear : When o'er the white waves stooping, His boating c:rps she spied ;' Then like a lih iroopmz She bow'd her head and c: 58 BALLADS AND BLACK-EYED SUSAN. [By Gay.] A ll in the Downs the fleet was moor'd, The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came on boards O where shall I my true love find ? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true If my sweet William sails among your crew ? William, who high upon the yard Rock'd by the billows to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard, He sigh'd and cast his eyes below ; The cord glides swiftly thro' his glowing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark high pois'd in air Shuts close his pinions to his breast, If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest. The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet. PASTORAL SONGS 59 O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss off that falling tear, We only part to meet again. Change as ye list ye winds, my heart shall be, The faithful compass that still points to thee. Believe not what the landmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind, They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, At every port a mistress find. Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoever I go. If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. Thy breath is Africk's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white; Thus every beauteous object that I view, Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. Tho' battle calls me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Tho' cannons roar, yet free from harms William shall to his dear return : Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye. 60 BALLADS AND The boatswain gives the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosoms spread ; No longer must she stay on board, They kiss'd; she sigh'd; he hung his head Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land ; Adieu, she cries, and waved her lily hand. [Gay.] JDaphnis stood pensive in the shade. With arms across, and head reclin'd : , Pale looks accus'd the cruel maid, And sighs reliev'd his love-sick mind : His tuneful pipe all broken lay, Looks, sighs, and actions seem'd to say, My Chloe is unkind. Why ring the woods with warbling throats ? Ye larks, ye linnets, cease your strains ; I faintly hear in your sweet notes, My Chloe's voice that wakes my pains : Yet why should you your song forbear ? Your mates delight your song to hear, But Chloe mine disdains. PASTORAL SONGS. 61 As thus he melancholy stood, Dejected as the lonely dove, Sweet sounds broke gently through the wood. I feel the sound ; my heart-strings move : 'Twas not the nightingale that sung ; No, 'tis my Chloe's sweeter tongue, Hark, hark, what says my love ! How foolish is the nymph, she cries, Who trifles with her lover's pain ! Nature still speaks in woman's eyes, Our artful lips were made to feign. O Daphnis, Daphnis, 'twas my pride, 'Twas not my heart thy love denied, Come back, dear youth, again. As t'other day my hand he seiz'd, My blood with thrilling motion flew ; Sudden I put on looks displeas'd, And hasty from his hold withdrew. 'Twas fear alone, thou simple swain, Then hadst thou prest my hand again, My heart had yielded too ! 'Tis true, thy tuneful reed I blam'd, That swell'd thy lip and rosy cheek; Think not thy skill in song defam'd, That lip should other pleasures seek : Much, much thy music I approve; Yet break thy pipe, for more I love, Much more to hear thee speak. 62 BALLADS AND My heart forebodes that I'm betray'd, Daphnis, I fear, is ever gone ; Last night with Delia's dog he play'd, Love by such trifles first comes on. Now, now, dear shepherd, come away, My tongue would now my heart obey, Ah Chloe, thou art won ! The youth stepp'd forth with hasty pace. And found where wishing Chloe lay ^ Shame sudden lighten'd in her face, Confus'd she knew not what to say. At last in broken words she cried, To-morrow you in vain had tried, But I am lost to-day ! DESPAIRING SHEPHERD. [By Rowe.] JJespairing beside a clear stream, A shepherd forsaken was laid, And whilst a false nymph was his theme^ A willow supported his head ; The wind that blew over the plain To his sighs with a sigh did reply, And the brook in return to his pain Ran mournfully murmuring by* PASTORAL SONGS. 63 Alas 1 silly swain that I was ! Thus sadly complaining he cried ; When first I beheld that fair face,, Twere better by far I had died. She talk'd, and I blest the dear tongue, When she smil'd 'twas a pleasure too great > I listen'dj and cried^ when she sung^ Was nightingale ever so sweet ? How foolish was I to believe She would doat on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve To forsake the fine folks of the town : To think that a beauty so gay 5 So kind and so constant would prove » To go clad like our maidens in gray, And live in a cottage on love. What tho' I have skill to complain^ Tho' the Muses my temples have crown'd What tho' when they hear my soft strain,, The virgins sit weeping around ? Ah Colin thy hopes are in vain, Thy pipe and thy laurel resign^ Thy fair one inclines to a swain Whose music is sweeter than thine. 64 BALLADS AND And you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suffer, forbear, Forbear to accuse the false maid ; Tho' thro* the wide world we should range, 'Tis in vain from our fortune to fly ; 'Twas hers to be false, and to change, 'Tis mine to be constant, and die. If while my hard fate I sustain, In her breast any pity is found, Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me laid low in the ground : The last humble boon that I crave Is to shade me with cypress and yew, And when she looks down on my grave Let her own that her shepherd was true. Then to her new love let her go, And deck her in golden array, Be finest at every fine show, And frolic it all the long day : While Colin forgotten and gone, No more shall be heard of her seen, Unless when beneath the pale moon His ghost shall glide over the green, PASTORAL SONGS. 65 [Rowe.] As on a summer's day, In the greenwood shade I lay, The maid that I lov'd, As her fancy mov'd, Came walking forth that way. And as she passed by, With a scornful glance of her eye, What a shame, quoth she, For a swain must it be, Like a lazy loon for to lie ? And dost thou nothing heed What Pan our God has decreed; What a prize to-day Shall be given away To the sweetest shepherd's reed ? There's not a single swain Of all this fruitful plain, But with hopes and fears, Now busily prepares The bonny boon to gain. m BALLADS AND Shall another maiden shine In brighter array than thine ? Up, up, dull swain, Tune thy pipe once again, And make the garland mine. Alas ! my love, I cried, What avails this courtly pride ? Since thy dear desert Is written in my heart, What is all the world beside ? To me thou art more gay In this homely russet gray, Than the nymphs of our green, So trim and so sheen, Or the brightest queen of May, What tho' my fortune frown, And deny thee a silken gown \ My own dear maid, Be content with this shade, And a shepherd all thy own; PASTORAL SONGS. 67 THE DESPONDING SHEPHERD, [Prior.] Alexis shunn'd his fellow swains, Their rural sports and jocund strains ; Heaven shield us all from Cupid's bow ! He lost his crook^ he left his flocks, And wandering thro' the lonely rocks, He nourish'd endless woe. The nymphs and shepherds round him came, His grief some pity> others blame, The fatal cause all kindly seek ; He mingled his concern with theirs, He gave them back their friendly tears, He sigh'd, but could not speak. Clorinda came among the rest, And she too kind concern exprest And ask'd the reason of his woe ; She ask'd, but with an air and mien That made it easily foreseen She fear'd too much to know. 68 BALLADS AND The shepherd rais'd his mournful head, And will you pardon me, he said, While I the cruel truth reveal ? Which nothing from my breast should tear, Which never should offend your ear, But that you bid me tell. "Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain, Since you appear'd upon the plain, You are the cause of all my care ; Your eyes ten thousand dangers dart, Ten thousand torments vex my heart, I love, and I despair. Too much, Alexis, have I heard, 'Tis what I thought, 'tis what I fear'd, And yet I pardon you, she cried ; But you shall promise ne'er again, To breathe your vows, or speak your pain, He bow'd, obey'd, and died. PASTORAL SONGS. 69 THE MAD MAIDEN. One morning very early, one morning in the spring, I heard a maid in Bedlam who mournfully did sing, Her chains she rattled on her hands while sweetly thus sung she, I love my love, because I know my love loves me. Oh cruel were his parents who sent my love to sea, And cruel cruel was the ship that bore my love from me, [ruin'd me, Yet I love his parents since they're his, altho' they've And I love my love, because I know my love loves me. O should it please the pitying pow'rs to call me to the sky, [to fly; I'd claim a guardian angel's charge around my love To guard him from all dangers how happy should I be! For I love my love, because I know my love loves me. I'll make a strawy garland, I'll make it wondrous fine, With roses, lilies, daisies, I'll mix the eglantine ; And I'll present it to my love when he returns from sea, For I love my love, because I know my love loves me. 70 BALLADS AND Oh if I were a little bird to build upon his breast, Or if I were a nightingale to sing my love to rest ! To gaze upon his lovely eyes all my reward Should be; For I love my love, because I know my love loves me. Oh if I were an eagle, to soar into the sky ! I'd gaze around with piercing eyes where I my love might spy ; But ah ! unhappy maiden, that love you ne'er shall see, Yet I love my love, because I know my love loves me. I h E sun was sunk beneath the hill The western clouds were lined with gold, Clear was the sky, the wind was still, The flocks were penn'd within the fold ; When in the silence of the grove Poor Damon thus despair'd of love. Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose From the hard rock or oozy beach, Who from each weed that barren grows, Expects the grape or downy peach, With equal faith may hope to find The truth of love in womankind. PASTORAL SONGS. 71 No herds have I, no fleecy care, No fields that wave with golden grain, No pastures green, or gardens fair, A woman's venal heart to gain ; Then all in vain my sighs must prove, Whose whole estate, alas ! is love. How wretched is the faithful youth, Since women's hearts are bought and sold : They ask no vows of sacred truth, Whene'er they sigh, they sigh for gold. Gold can the frowns of scorn remove ? But I am scorn'd — who have but love. To buy the gems of India's coast What wealth, what riches would suffice ? Yet India's shore should never boast The lustre of thy rival eyes ; For there the world too cheap must prove; Can I then buy ? — who have but love. Then, Mary, since nor gems nor ore Can with thy brighter self compare, Be just, as fair, and value more Than gems or ore, a heart sincere ; Let treasure meaner beauties move ; Who pays thy worth, must pay in love. 72 BALLADS AND W hat oeauties does Flora disclose ? How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ? But Mary's still sweeter than those Both nature and fancy exceed. No daisy nor sweet blushing rose, Nor all the gay flowers of the field, Nor Tweed gliding gently thro' those, Such beauty and pleasure can yield. The warblers are heard in each grove, The linnet, the lark and the thrush ; The blackbird and sweet cooing dove With music enchant every bush. Come let us go forth to the mead, Let us see how the primroses spring ; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather 'd folks sing. How does my love pass the long day ? Does Mary not tend a few sheep ? Do they never carelessly stray, While happily she lies asleep ? Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest, Kind nature indulging my bliss, To relieve the soft pains of my breast I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. PASTORAL SONGS. 73 ? Tis she does the virgins excels No beauty with her can compare, Love's graces all round her do dwell, She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ? Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed : Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed. EDWIN AND EMMA. [Mallet.] r a r in the windings of a vale, Fast by a sheltering wood, The safe retreat of health and peace, An humble cottage stood. There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair Beneath a mother's eye, Whose only wish on earth was now To see her blest, and die. The softest blush that nature spreads Gave colour to her cheek; Such orient colour smiles thro' heav'n When May's sweet mornings break. 74 BALLADS AND Nor let the pride of great ones scorn This charmer of the plains ; That sun which bids their diamond blaze, To deck our lily deigns. Long had she fir'd each youth with love, Each maiden with despair ; And tho' by all a wonder own'd, Yet knew not she was fair. Till Edwin came, the pride of swains, A soul that knew no art, And from whose eyes serenely mild, Shone forth the feeling heart. A mutual flame was quickly caught, Was quickly too reveal' d ; For neither bosom lodg'd a wish, Which virtue keeps eonceaFd. What happy hours of heartfelt bliss, Did love on both bestow ! But bliss too mighty long to last, Where fortune proves a foe. His sister, who like envy form'd, Like her in mischief joy' d, To work them harm, with wicked skill Each darker art employ'd. PASTORAL SONGS. 75 The father too, a sordid mam. Who love nor pity knew, Was all unfeeling as the rock From whence his riches" grew. Long had he seen their mutual flame, And seen it longunmov'd; Then with a father's frown at last, He sternly disapproved. In Edwin's gentle heart a war Of differing passions strove ; His heart, which durst not disobey, Yet could not cease to love. Denied her sight, he oft behind The spreading hawthorn crept To snatch a glance, to mark the spot Where Emma walk'd and wept. Oft too in Stanemore's wintry waste, Beneath the moonlight shade, In sighs to pour his soften'd soul The midnight mourner stray'd. His cheeks, where love with beauty g] ?Vd, A deadly pale- o'ercasi : So fades the fresh rose in its prime, Before the northern blast. 76 BALLADS AND The parents now, with late remorse, Hung o'er his dying bed, And wearied heav'n with fruitless pray'rs, And fruitless sorrows shed. 'Tis past, he cried, but, if your souls Sweet mercy yet can move, Let these dim eyes once more behold What they must ever love. She came • his cold hand softly touch'd, - And bath'd with many a tear ; Fast falling o'er the primrose pale So morning dews appear. But oh ! his sister's jealous care (A cruel sister she !) Forbad what Emma came to say, My Edwin, live for me. Now homeward as she hopeless went, The church-yard path along, The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream' d Her lover's fun'ral song. Amid the falling gloom of night, Her startling fancy found In every bush his hovering shade, His groan in every sound. PASTORAL SONGS. 77 Alone, appall'd, thus had she pass'd The visionary vale, When lo ! the death-bell smote her ear, Sad sounding in the gale. Just then she reach'd with trembling steps, Her aged mother's door ; He's gone, she cried, and I shall see That angel face no more. I feel, I feel this breaking heart Beat high against my side : From her white arm down sunk her head, She shiver'd, sigh'd, and died. [Shenstone.] 1 h e western sky was purpled o'er With every pleasing ray. And flocks reviving felt no more The sultry heat of day ; When from a hazel's artless bower Soft warbled Strephon's tongue; He blest the scene, he blest the hour, While Nancy's praise he sung. 78 BALLADS AND Let fops with fickle falshood range The paths of wanton love, Whilst weeping maids lament their change, And sadden every grove : But endless blessings crown the day I saw fair Esham's dale : And every blessing find its way To Nancy of the vale. 'Twas from Avona's bank, the maid DifFus'd her lovely beams : And every shining glance display 'd The Naiad of the streams. > Soft as the wild duck's tender young, That float on Avon's tide ; Bright as the water lily sprung And glittering near its side. Fresh as the bordering flowers, her bloom, Her eye all mild to view ; The little halcyon's azure plume Was never half so blue. Her shape was like the reed, so sleek, So taper, strait, and fair ; Her dimpled smile, her blushing cheek, How charming sweet they were I PASTORAL SONGS. 79 Far in the winding vale retir'd This peerless bud I founds And shadowing rocks and woods conspir'd To fence her beauties round. That nature in so lone a dell Should form a nymph so sweet ! Or fortune to her secret cell Conduct my wand'ring feet.