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No pow'rful charms can they impart,
To please the fenfe, or eafe my heart:
In pity, then, no longer stay;
But rife, my fair, and come away.

SONG 755.

Written by Mr. LEMOINE. 'TWAS near a purling river fide,

Where bending willows kifs the tide;
Young Chloe fat, with head reclin'd,
On flowery bank, opprefs'a in mind.

Her bofom heav'd with throbbing fighs,
The tears ran trickling from her eyes;
Her face reflected with despair,
And ev'ry groan re-echo'd care.

Till grief at laft gave such a stroke,

Her eye-iids clos'd, her heart-rings broke.
Yet, ere fhe dy'd, ia folemn tane,
She spoke thefe words without a groan:

Farewel, ye meads; farewel, ye bow`rs;
Tranflucid ftreams, and fragrant flow`rs:
Colin and earthly joys adieu,
No longer I can stay with you.

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And a flame, without fortune's rich gifts on it's lide,

The grave ones will fcorn, and a mother muft chide..

Afraid of rebuke. he his vifits forbore,
And we promis'd to think of each other no

For envy has eyes, and a tongue that will tell;

more,

But to tarry with patience a feafon more kind; So I put the dear fhepherd quite out of my mind.

But love breaks the fences I vairly had made, Grows deaf to all cenfure, and will be repaid; If we figh for each other, ah! quit not your

care

Condemn the god Cupid, but bleís the fond pair.

SONG 758.

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His fortune was eafy, his manner polite,
He read a great deal, and at times hecould write;
Unmov'd by ambition, contented and free,
He often fung thus, on the Banks of the Dee.

The monarch, fill jealous of plots and designs, Who fighs at his heart while in fplendor he ihines,

With pity I trace through the infome Levee, And bleis my kind ftars for the Banks of the Dec.

The mifer, how wretched, amidft & His flore! What he has, he can't tafte, yet he fighs to have more;

While I with a little am happy and free,
In a pleafing retreat on the Banks of the Dee.

Let Tom, without paffion, ftill figh for the fair, Affe & their fuft manner, and mimick their air, Supply them with fcandal o'er green and bohea, Give me a retreat on the Banks of the Dee.

No duns to moleft me, no cares to harraís, In pleasing fucceffion the moments will rafs; At peace with the world, contented and free, I'll live and I'll die on the Banks of the Dee.

SONG 760.

Written by J. B.

WHEN merit is sterling that claims our

attention,

The object we eagerly wish to purfue; Like a magnet poffefs'd of fuperior attraction,

We wish to be grac'd with it's influence too: From a hope to be bleft with fach powers to pleafe,

As are found in the lafs on whofe virtues

Pil awell;

And truft me you'll not find another, with eafe, Whose charms can compare to the charms of my Neil.

O! aid me, kind truth, to paint her perfections,
To give ev'ry virtue it's infinite due;
To fpeak of the many and nameiefs attractions,
No language invented yet ever could do:
Our thoughts may fuppofe a moft delicate mind,
Our reafon ideas that fuit very well;
But these far deficient in power I find,

To declare all the charms of my lovely dear
Nell.

Her mind, foreplete with virtue's endearments, Not prudish, but affable, lively, and gay; And chearful, tho' arm'd with proper oficern

ments

To quash ev'ry hope that hou'd mean to be

trav.

Her friendship fo great, has been ever sincere,

And her pride it is only in truth to excel; Examples like her's may her fex still revere, And endeavour to vie with my lovely dear Nell!

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CYMON AND IPHIGENIA; A CANTATA. RECITATIVE.

NEAR a thick grove, whofe deep embow`ring fhade

Seem'd most for love and contemplation made,
A crystal ftream with gentle murmurs slows,
Who.e flow'ry banks are form'd tortoft repole:
Thither, retir'd from Phœbus' fultry ray,
And luil'd in fleep, fair Iphigenia lay.
Cymon, a clown, who never dreamt of love,
By chance was fumping to the neighb'ring
grove;

He trudg'd along, unknowing what he fought,
And whittled as he went, for want of thought:
But when he firft beheld the fleeping maid,
He gap'd-he ftar'd-her lovely form furvey'd:
And while with artlets voice he fweetly fung,
Beauty and nature thus inform'd his tongue.

AIR.

The fream that glides in murmurs by,
Whofe glafly bofom thews the sky,

Compleats the rural scene;
But in thy befom, charming maid,
All heav'n itfelf is fure difplay'd,
Too lovely Iphigene.

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Now, proud to be conquer'd, he fighs for the fair,

Grows dull to all pleasure, but being with her, He's mute, till his heart-ftrings are ready to break;

For fear of offending forbids him to speak; And wanders a willing example to prove That friendship with woman is fifter to love.

A lover thus conquer'd can ne'er give offence; Nota dupe to her fmiles, but a flave to her fenfe; His paffion nor wrinkles nor age can allay, Since founded on that which can never decay; And time, that fhall beauty's fhort empire re

move,

Increafing her reafon, increafes his love.

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SONG 765.

A NAVAL ODE.

Written by Mr. HEYWOOD.

EASE, ye tinkling cymbals! ceafe! Ye lighter trains be ftill!

CE

Now let the trumpet's fhrill alarms,
With never-dying glory's charms,
And hate of Bourbon's treach'rous race,
Each free-born bofom fill.

Hence green-ey'd envy, pallid fear;
Hence treachery, with friendly air;

And difcord, with Gorgonian front:
To Gallia's fruitless coaft repair;
Go fix your hateful dwelling there;
Ye hell-born crew, avaunt!

Let fhouts triumphant fill the sky,
While yet each generous breaft beats high,
And thirft of glory warms:
Let every craggy rock around,
From distant hore to fhore rebound,
Till Heaven's blue arch ring back the found,
To arms! to arms! to arms!

Now Britons, now your glorious crofs difplay,

Let concord now unite each heart and nand; So fhall you fill with Neptune rule the fea, While Gallia trembles on her frighted strand.

What tho' Chatham be no more,
Heroes ftill we have in store,

For council form'd, or field:
Still Shelburne, uncorrupt, remains;
And still victorious Keppel reigns;
Their country's fword and fhield.
Hark! on Gallia's diftant fhore,
I hear the murd'ring cannon roar
Tremendous o'er the fea:
'Tis warlike Keppel's fiery foul
Now bids Britannia's thunders roll,
And wipes her stains away.

Conqueft crown thee, matchiefs chief,
Glory hover round thee ftill;
Far be from thee every grief,

Every pain, and every ill :
Honour'd may'ft thou live, and long,
(Bourbon trembling from afar;)
Glorious theme of future fong,

Britain's thunder-bolt of war.

But lo! I fee th' approaching navy move; Mark on the deck the godlike chief appears; Fierce and refiftless as the bolt of Jove,

Hardy and honeft as the fword he wears: And to! before him, o'er the bounding tide, High in their fhells, the fea-green Nereids ride; Beneath their cars the foaming billows roars And thus the virgins fing, flow moving to the fhore:

Hail, virtuous brother, hail!
May thy glories never fail;
Nor in time of war, or peace,
Thy full tide of fame decrease?
Still may Conqueft's golden wing,
Round thy head her radiance fling;
Till at length death's friendly hand
Bring thee this our mild command:

Brother, bid the world farewel;
Come, and with thy fifters dwell.
For of more than mortal race,
We thy lineage well can trace t
Proteus oft the tale hath told,
How, within a cavern old,
On a fummer's fultry day,
Screen'd from Phabus' rays he lay;
When Neptune with Britannia came,
There to quench his ardent flame;
For oft the god his irkfome pain
Had told the nymph, but told in vain
Till chancing on the falt-fea fhore
He faw her, feiz'd, and thither bore;
There on a bed of fea-weed laid,
He prefs 4 the coy, consenting maid;

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Then bade the charmer name her want,
And ftraight he would her wishes grant..
The forlorn goddefs rofe, and figh'd,
And, fighing, to the god reply'd:

Grant, (nor let me ask in vain)
Grant me the empire of the main.

She fpoke, and blush'd; the love-fick god Confents, and gave the fealing nod.

Go, the faithless race chaffifing,
Let them foon their folly rue;
Go, each toil, each pain despifing;
'Tis thy country bids thee go.

Thus to her fon the beav'nly goddess fpoke,
And shook her glittring jav'lin in the air;
Then to the fhore her hafty course she took,
Dire war and conquest following in the rear.

When now nine changing moons were o'er, Fame faw the train, and o'er the murm'ring

The goddefs on the falt-fea fhore,
Within the fatal cavern laid,
Implor'd divine Lucina's aid.
Soon Neptune, from his wat'ry bed,
O'er-heard thy cries, and thither sped;
Then in his arms he rais'd and preft
Thee, fcar'd and trembling, to his breaft,
Go now, my fen, (he faid) obey;
Go, take the empire of the fea:
So I refign to thee the waves;
Go, make Britannia's foes her flaves;
Go, conquer in thy mother's right,
And be a fecond Mars in fight.

The godhead faid; and, ere he left the strand,
Refign'd his trident to thy infant hand!

So fung the blue-ey'd fifters of the main, Melodious, o'er the wide Cerulean wafte; Before them Triton founds his twisted shell, The cliffs and cavern'd rocks rebellow to the blaft.

High on a rock reclin'd,

Black louring o'er the fea,

Her plumage dancing in the wind,
Divine Britannia lay.
Soon as the chief the fpies,
Approaching o'er the tide,
Joy burft irradiate from her eyes;
And hail, my fon! fhe cry'd.

Welcome, mighty conqueror,
Welcome to thy native fhore;
Lo, in many a mazy round,
Peace and plenty trip the ground,
By thee again reftor'd;
Whilt fair freedom, hand in hand

With Neptune, guards our facred strand,

And hails thy conqu'ring fword.

Still o'er yon detefted band,
Stretch thy unrefifted hand,

And all their boafts defy; Let them but thy face behold, (As at immortal Talbot's old)

They tremble, and they fly.
For ne'er to mix in war's alarms,
Or join the direful clang of arms,
Was form'd that treach'rous race;
No patriot flames their bofom warms,
Nor publick virtues grace.
Singing, dancing, whining, fighing,
All the arts that they purfue;
Tre.ch'ry, fawning, cringing, lying,
All the godlike deeds they do.

waves

High-rais'd her trump, and spread the news around;

And foon, too foon, the fated land of flaves Heard the tremendous blaft, and trembled at the found!

SONG 766.

AN OLD BRITON'S COMPLAINT.
Written by the EDITOR.

POOR England! how hard is thy lot,

That once waft the pride of the world! Thy honours are all gone to pot,

And thy commerce far diftant is hurl'd! The French and the Spaniards unite,

While Dutchmen (by stealth) aid their cause And Britons may now bid good night

To their trade, to their freedom, and laws. How diff'rent in good Befs's days,

When Englishmen valiant and fout,
Had the rafcals e'en thought of fuch ways,
Would quickly have knock'd them about!
But then, ftead of coffee and tea,

They liv'd upon beef and strong beer;
And, believe me, we yet had been free,
If we'd stuck to the fame honeft chear.
For tea was the caufe, we well know,
Of our prefent unhappy difpute;
And America feels all her woe

Proceeded from that fatal root.

Then let us, ere yet 'tis too late,
Abandon this dangerous leaf;

And refolve with no woman to mate,

Who'll not change it for ale and good beef.

So fhall we, as formerly, find

The world will a Briton revere;

Nor dare any treaty unbind

With a people in arms they must fear.

Our men will all then be robust,

And our women all free from the spleen; While each to the other'll be juft, And liberty heighten the scene.

SONG 767.

WHEN fiit Vaneffa's blooming face
Surpriz'd my dazzled fight;

I wish'd, I figh'd, view'd ev'ry grace
With wonder and delight.

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