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"O, when or care, or sickness pale, "Forbid sweet sleep to bless the night, "What joy to hear her tender tale "Charm each long hour till morning light.
"And when the ghastly form of death
Heaves, painful heaves, long labʼring sighs;
"O then her voice of love divine!
"Shall soothe to peace my trembling breast, "And patient I the world resign, "In life with love, and Delia blest."
INVOCATION TO HEALTH
WHAT sprightly nymph trips o'er the lawn,
I know thee well; thy buskin'd feet,
My frugal cot thou oft hast blest.
By mortals styl'd heart-cheering health,
As o'er the fairest landscape's face,
But when thou'rt absent nought can please, The bloom of spring, or autumn's store; The wood-lark's notes but vainly teaze, And e'en the muse delights no more.
Thy smiles, on verdant couch reclin'd,
Thou wisely shun'st the pale resorts
Of midnight ball, or masquerade ;. More pleas'd to join the rural sports
Of village nymphs beneath the shade..
Tho' haply in the sulphurous draught,.
Yet, rather o'er the mountain's brow,
Come then, blest nymph! my cottage cheer,
Euphrosyne, Vol. 2.
AN OLD BALLAD.
I CANNOT eat but little meat,
I stuffe my skin, so full within,
I love no rost, but a nut browne toste,
And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread, shall do me stead,
I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt
Back and side, &c.
And Tib my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seeke,
The teares run down her cheeke.
Back and side, &c. Now let them drinke, till they nod and winke, Even as good fellows sholde do;
They shall not misse to have the blisse
Good ale doth bring men to.
And all good sowles that have scoured bowles,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be younge or olde!
Back and side, &c.
Warton informs us that the first " Chanson a boire," or drinking ballad, of any merit in our language, was the above, which appeared in the year 1551. He remarks, that it has a vein of ease and humour which we should not expect to have been inspired by the simple beverage of those times. Warton's Hist. of English Poetry, Vol. 3.
SONNET TO MR. JACKSON..
ENCHANTING harmonist! the art is thine, Unmatch'd to pour the soul-dissolving air, That seems poor weeping virtue's hymn divine, Soothing the wounded bosom of despair!
O`say, what minstrel of the sky hath given
So sad thy songs of hopeless hearts complain, Love from his cyprian isle prepares to fly;: He hastes to listen to thy tender strain,
And learn from thee to breathe a softer sigh.. Peter Pindar.
TRANSLATION OF FENELON'S ODE TO SOLITUDE.
BEYOND this plain's extensive bounds,
In such wild forms fantastic rise,