"O Nancy wilt thou go with me,"

which has scarcely its equal for real tenderness in this or any other language.

Other resemblances might be pointed out, but I imagine it is unnecessary to go farther. What has been already observed may serve to put a reader of taste upon remarking those niceties of composition, and delicate variations, which he might otherwise have passed over; and I would not anticipate the pleasure he will receive from his own discoveries of this kind. An ample store of beauties lies open for his inspection, and he will probably find reason to flatter himself, that in this species of poetry, as well as in every other, the English follow the classic ancients with a bold and vigorous step, and strain hard for the palm of victory.

PASSIONATE AND DESCRIPTIVE

SONGS.

[PHILLIPS.]

BLESS'D as th' immortal Gods is he,*
The youth that fondly sits by thee;
And sees, and hears thee, all the while,
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

Twas this depriv'd my soul of rest,
And rais'd such tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

* Though it may seem irregular to begin a collection of English Songs with an Ode of Sappho, yet I am tempted to do it on account of the excellence of the translation, which has almost the merit of an original, and that the reader may have so nearly in view a pattern of perfection with which he may compare the rest.

My bosom glow'd, a subtle flame
Ran quick thro' all my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

[SMOLLETT.]

THY fatal shafts unerring move,
I bow before thine altar, Love;
I feel the soft resistless flame
Glide swift thro' all my vital frame.

For while 1 gaze, my bosom glows,
My blood in tides impetuous flows;
Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll,
And floods of transport whelm my soul.

My fault'ring tongue attempts in vain
In soothing numbers to complain;
My tongue some secret magic ties,
My murmurs sink in broken sighs.

Condemn'd to nurse eternal care,
And ever drop the silent tear,
Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh,
Unfriended live, unpitied die.

[HAMILTON.]

AH! the shepherd's mournful fate !

When doom'd to love, and doom' to languish, To bear the scornful fair one's hate,

Nor dare disclose his anguish.

Yet eager looks, and dying sighs,
My secret soul discover,

While rapture trembling thro' my eyes

Reveals how much I love her.

The tender glance, the redd'ning cheek,
O'erspread with rising blushes,

A thousand various ways they speak
A thousand various wishes.