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SONG.-By a WOMAN

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
My morning and my evening song,
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.
MAN Speaker

The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part,
Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire-except his heart:
Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd,
At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast.
'Wild is the whirlwind rolling

O'er Afric's sandy plain,

And wild the tempest howling
Along the billowed main :

But every danger felt before,

The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,
Less dreadful struck me with dismay,
Than what I feel this fatal day.

Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave,
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,
And lay my body where my limbs were lost.'

SONG.-By a MAN.-Basso, Spiritoso
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field
To do thy memory right:

For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.

WOMAN Speaker

In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appear'd a lovely maid,

Affliction o'er each feature reigning,

Kindly came in beauty's aid;

Every grace that grief dispenses,

Every glance that warms the soul,

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In sweet succession charm'd the senses,

While pity harmoniz'd the whole.

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'The garland of beauty' ('tis thus she would say),

'No more shall my crook or my temples adorn,
I'll not wear a garland, Augusta's away,
I'll not wear a garland until she return:

But alas! that return I never shall see:

The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim,

There promis'd a lover to come, but, O me!

'Twas Death,-'twas the death of my Mistress that came. But ever, for ever, her image shall last,

I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;

On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.'

SONG.-By a WOMAN.-Pastorale

With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May No more will her crook or her temples adorn; For who'd wear a garland when she is away, When she is remov'd, and shall never return.

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On the grave of Augusta these garlands be plac'd,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb. 250
Chorus.-Altro Modo

On the grave of Augusta this garland be plac'd,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.

ΤΗ

EPITAPH ON THOMAS PARNELL

HIS tomb, inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,

That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

J

THE CLOWN'S REPLY

OHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers

To tell them the reason why asses had ears.

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'An't please you,' quoth John, 'I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.' EDINBURGH, 1753.

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON

H

ERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He Ted such a damnable life in this world,

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

EPILOGUE FOR MR. LEE LEWES

HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your

nonsense;

I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

[Takes off his mask.

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Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu'd!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities.
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me, if I do!
No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme:
'Give me another horse! bind up my wounds! soft-
'twas but a dream.'

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating :
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.

'Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Once on the margin of a fountain stood,

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'The deuce confound,' he cries, 'these drumstick shanks,

And cavill'd at his image in the flood.

They never have my gratitude nor thanks;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head; yes, yes, I have a head.

How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now.'
Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew.
'Hoicks! hark forward!' came thund'ring from behind,
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length his silly head, so priz'd before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;

Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself,-like me.

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[Taking a jump through the stage-door.

THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO

ACT I

SCENE-Israelites sitting on the banks of the Euphrates
FIRST PROPHET

RECITATIVE

YE captive tribes, that hourly work and weep,

Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep,

Suspend awhile the task, the tear suspend,
And turn to God, your father and your friend.
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world a foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.

CHORUS OF ISRAELITES

Our God is all we boast below,
To Him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise.

And though no temple richly drest,
Nor sacrifice is here;

We'll make His temple in our breast,
And offer up a tear.

SECOND PROPHET

RECITATIVE

That strain once more; it bids remembrance rise,
And calls my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, drest in flowery pride,
Ye plains where Jordan rolls its glassy tide,

ΤΟ

Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd,

Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around,

These hills how sweet! those plains how wondrous fair! But sweeter still when Heaven was with us there.

AIR

O Memory, thou fond deceiver!
Still importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain:

Hence, deceiver most distressing!
Seek the happy and the free:
The wretch who wants each other blessing,
Ever wants a friend in thee.

FIRST PROPHET

RECITATIVE

Yet why repine? What, though by bonds confin'd,
Should bonds enslave the vigour of the mind?
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see
Ourselves alone from idol-worship free?
Are not this very day those rites begun,
Where prostrate folly hails the rising sun?
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain
For superstitious rites and mirth profane?

And should we mourn? Should coward Virtue fly,
When impious Folly rears her front on high?
No; rather let us triumph still the more,

And as our fortune sinks, our wishes soar.

AIR

The triumphs that on vice attend
Shall ever in confusion end;

The good man suffers but to gain,
And every virtue springs from pain :

As aromatic plants bestow
No spicy fragrance while they grow,
But crush'd, or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.

SECOND PROPHET

RECITATIVE

But hush, my sons! our tyrant lords are near,
The sound of barbarous mirth offends mine ear;

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