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"Forgive, dear youth," the happy Laura said,

"Forgive each doubt, each fondly anxious fear Which from my heart for ever now is fled

Thy love and truth, thus tried, are doubly dear.
"With pain I mark'd the various passions rise,
When beauty so divine before thee mov'd;
With trembling doubt beheld thy wandering eyes,
For still I fear'd ;-alas! because I lov'd.
"Each anxious doubt shall Laura now forego,
No more regret those joys so lately known,
Conscious that though thy breast to all may glow
Thy faithful heart shall beat for her alone.
"Then, Silvio, seize again thy tuneful lyre,
Nor yet sweet Beauty's pow'r forbear to praise
Again let charms divine thy strains inspire,
And Laura's voice shall aid the poet's lays."

I NE'ER COULD ANY LUSTRE SEE.
"I NE'ER could any lustre seet

In eyes that would not look on me:
When a glance aversion hints,
I always think the lady squints.
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,
But where my own did hope to sip.
No pearly teeth rejoice my view,
Unless a 'yes' displays their hue—
The prudish lip, that noes me back,
Convinces me the teeth are black.
To me the cheek displays no roses,
Like that th' assenting blush discloses;
But when with proud disdain 'tis spread,
To me 'tis but a scurvy red.

Would she have me praise her hair?
Let her place my garland there.
Is her hand so white and pure?
I must press it to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it grateful press again.

From these verses one of the songs in "The Duenna" was taken.
Another mode of beginning this song in the MS. :-.

"Go tell the maid who seeks to move

My lyre to praise, my heart to love,
No rose upon her cheek can live,
Like those assenting blushes give."

In gardens oft a beauteous flow'r there grows,
By vulgar eyes unnotic'd and unseen;
In sweet security it humbly blows,

And rears its purple head to deck the green.

This flow'r, as nature's poet sweetly sings,

Was once milk-white, and heart's ease was it's name; Till wanton Cupid pois'd his roseate wings, A vestal's sacred bosom to inflame.

With treacherous aim the god his arrow drew,
Which she with icy coldness did repel ;
Rebounding thence with feathery speed it flew,
Till on this lonely flow'r at last it fell.

Heart's ease no more the wandering shepherds found,
No more the nymphs its snowy form possess,
Its white now chang'd to purple by Love's wound,
Heart's ease no more, 'tis Love in Idleness.'

"This flow'r, with sweet-briar join'd, shall thee adorn,
Sweet Jessie, fairest 'mid ten thousand fair!
But guard thy gentle bosom from the thorn,

Which, though conceal'd, the sweet-brier still must bear.

"And place not Love, though idle, in thy breast, Though bright its hues, it boasts no other charm-

So may thy future days be ever blest,

And friendship's calmer joys thy bosom warm!"

But where does Laura pass her lonely hours?
Does she still haunt the grot and willow-tree?
Shall Silvio from his wreath of various flow'rs
Neglect to cull one simple sweet for thee?

"Ah Laura, no," the constant Silvio cries,
"For thee a never-fading wreath I'll twine,
Though bright the rose, its bloom too swiftly flies,
No emblem meet for love so true as mine.

For thee, my love, the myrtle, ever-green,
Shall every year its blossoms sweet disclose,
Which when our spring of youth no more is seen,
Shall still appear more lovely than the rose."

"Forgive, dear youth," the happy Laura said,
"Forgive each doubt, each fondly anxious fear
Which from my heart for ever now is fled-

Thy love and truth, thus tried, are doubly dear.
"With pain I mark'd the various passions rise,
When beauty so divine before thee mov'd;
With trembling doubt beheld thy wandering eyes,
For still I fear'd ;-alas! because I lov'd.
"Each anxious doubt shall Laura now forego,
No more regret those joys so lately known,
Conscious that though thy breast to all may glow
Thy faithful heart shall beat for her alone.
"Then, Silvio, seize again thy tuneful lyre,
Nor yet sweet Beauty's pow'r forbear to praise
Again let charms divine thy strains inspire,
And Laura's voice shall aid the poet's lays."

I NE'ER COULD ANY LUSTRE SEE.
"I NE'ER could any lustre seet

In eyes that would not look on me:
When a glance aversion hints,
I always think the lady squints.
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,
But where my own did hope to sip.
No pearly teeth rejoice my view,
Unless a 'yes' displays their hue-
The prudish lip, that noes me back,
Convinces me the teeth are black.
To me the cheek displays no roses,
Like that th' assenting blush discloses;
But when with proud disdain 'tis spread,
To me 'tis but a scurvy red.

Would she have me praise her hair?
Let her place my garland there.
Is her hand so white and pure?
I must press it to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it grateful press again.

From these verses one of the songs in "The Duenna” was taken.
Another mode of beginning this song in the MS. :-

"Go tell the maid who seeks to move

My lyre to praise, my heart to love,
No rose upon her cheek can live,
Like those assenting blushes give."

Must I praise her melody?
Let her sing of love and me.
If she choose another theme,
I'd rather hear a peacock scream,
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so, when I see

That heaving bosom sigh for me,
None but bigots will in vain
Adore a heav'n they cannot gain.
If I must religious prove

To the mighty God of Love,
Sure I am it is but fair

He, at least, should hear my prayer.
But, by each joy of his I've known,
And all I yet shall make my own,
Never will I, with humble speech,
Pray to a heav'n I cannot reach."

DRY BE THAT TEAR.
DRY be that tear, my gentlest love,
Be hush'd that struggling sigh,
Nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove
More fix'd, more true than I.

Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear,
Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear.-
Dry be that tear.

Ask'st thou how long my love will stay,
When all that's new is past?-
How long, ah, Delia, can I say
How long my life will last?
Dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh,
At least I'll love thee till I die.-
Hush'd be that sigh.

And does that thought affect thee too,
The thought of Sylvio's death,
That he who only breath'd for you,

Must yield that faithful breath?
Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear,

Nor let us lose our Heaven here.

Dry be that tear.

There is in the second stanza here a close resemblance to

TO THE RECORDING ANGEL.-CLIO'S REQUEST.

525

66

one of the madrigals of Montreuil, a French poet, to whom Sir John Moore was indebted for the point of his well-known verses, If in that breast, so good so pure."* Mr. Sheridan, however, knew nothing of French, and neglected every opportunity of learning it, till, by a very natural process, his ignorance of the language grew into hatred of it. Besides, we have the immediate source from which he derived the thought of this stanza, in one of the Essays of Hume, who, being a reader of foreign literature, most probably found it in Montreuil.+

TO THE RECORDING ANGEL.

CHERUB of heaven, that from thy secret stand
Dost note the follies of each mortal here,
Oh, if Eliza's steps employ thy hand,

Blot the sad legend with a mortal tear.

Nor, when she errs, through passion's wild extreme,
Mark then her course, nor heed each trifling wrong;

Nor when her sad attachment is her theme,

Note down the transports of her erring tongue.
But when she sighs for sorrows not her own,
Let that dear sigh to Mercy's cause be given ;
And bear that tear to her Creator's throne,
Which glistens in the eye upraised to Heaven!

EXTRACTS FROM "CLIO'S REQUEST." PUBLISHED IN 1771, DESCRIBING SEVERAL OF THE BEAUTIES OF BATH.

BUT, hark!—did not our bard repeat

The love-born name of M-rg-r-t ?—‡

* "The grief, that on my quiet preys,

That rends my heart and checks my tongue,

I fear will last me all my days,

And feel it will not last me long.'

It is thus in Montreuil :

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"C'est un mal que j'aurai tout le tems de ma vie ;
Mais je ne l'aurai pas long-tems."

+ Or in an Italian song of Menage, from which Montreuil, who was ac customed to such thefts, most probably stole it. The point in the Italian is, as far as I can remember it, expressed thus :

"In van, o Filli, tu chiedi

Se lungamente durera l'ardore

*

Chi lo potrebbe dire ?

Incerta, o Filli, e l'ora del morire."

Lady Margaret Fordyce.

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