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What flames my nerves invade
When I behold the breast
Of that too charming maid
Rise, suing to be press'd!

Venus round Fanny's waist
Has her own Cestus bound,
With guardian Cupids graced,
Who dance the circle round.
How happy must he be

Who shall her zone unloose!

That bliss to all but me

May heaven and she refuse.

EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

TO DELIA.

DRIED be that tear, my gentlest love,
Be hush'd that struggling sigh,
Not Season's day nor Fate shall prove
More fix'd, more true than I!

Hush'd be that sigh, be dried that tear,
Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear.

Dost ask how long my vows shall stay
When all that's new is pass'd?
How long, my Delia? can I say
How long my life will last?

Dried be that tear, be hush'd that sigh,
At least I'll love thee till I die.

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

Must yield that faithful breath?
Hush'd be that sigh, be dried that tear,
Nor let us lose our heaven here.

SHERIDAN.

SONG.

IN THE STRANGER.'

I HAVE a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart!

This cherish'd woe, this loved despair,

My lot for ever be;

So, my soul's lord, the pangs I bear
Be never known by thee!

And when pale characters of death
Shall mark this alter'd cheek;
When my poor wasted, trembling breath
My life's last hope would speak-

I will not raise my eyes to Heaven,
Nor mercy ask for me;

My soul despairs to be forgiven,
Unpardon'd, love, by thee.

SHERIDAN.

IN PITY, FOND BOSOM, LIE STILL. YES, now I shall think of that heart-broken maid Whom in days of my childhood I knew; All night she would weep in the cold willow shade, And her tears mingle warm with the dew! I have heard her exclaim, as she sadly reclined 'Mid the willows all dripping and chill, I have heard her exclaim while she shrunk in "In pity, fond bosom, lie still!' [the wind, The youth whom she loved had been torn from

By a fate too severely unkind, [her arms Thus wither'd, alas! was the rose of her charms, And clouded the beams of her mind!

Sweet mourner! thy fortunes may haply be mine,
And I feel in my heart that they will;
Then sad shall I sing, with a sorrow like thine,
'In pity, fond bosom, lie still!'

T. MOORE.

TO HENRY.

WHILE I hang on your bosom, distracted to lose

you,

[flow, High swells my sad heart, and fast my tears Yet think not of coldness they fall to accuse you, Did I ever upbraid you? Oh! no, my love, no! I own it would please me, at home would you Nor e'er feel a wish from Maria to go; [tarry, But if it gives pleasure to you, my dear Harry, Shall I blame your departure? Oh! no, my love, no!

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VOL. III.

L L

Now do not, dear Hal, while abroad you are

straying,

That heart which is mine on a rival bestow; Nay, banish that frown, such displeasure betray

ing,

[no!

Do you think I suspect you? Oh! no, my love, I believe you too kind for one moment to grieve me, Or plant in a heart which adores you such woe; Yet should you dishonour my truth and deceive [love, no! Should I e'er cease to love you? Oh! no, my

me,

M. G. LEWIS.

SONG.

I DANCED With Harriet at the fair,
And praised her for her jetty hair,
Which, like the tendrils of a vine,
About her brow in wanton twine
Luxuriantly ran;

But why I praised her, sweet one, know,
Because I recollected, so

The tresses negligently flow

About the cheeks of Anne.

One evening in the passion week,

When Lucy play'd at hide and seek,

Her black eyes shone like glowworms bright, And led me by their sparkling light

To find out where she ran;

But if I praised them, sweet one, know,

I recollected, even so

The black eyes sparkle, burn, and glow
Of gentle mistress Anne.

Louisa's lips in kisses meet,

Like a twin cherry ripe and sweet;

In Catherine's breath rich perfume dwells;
But ah! how Julia's bosom swells,

To charm the gaze of man!

Yet if I praise them, sweet one, know,
They singly but remind me, so
Lips, breath, and bosom I can show

All blent in mistress Anne.

LEFTLY.

SONG.

SWEET is the balmy evening hour,
And mild the glowworm's light,
And soft the breeze that sweeps the flower
With pearly dew-drops bright.

I love to loiter on the hill,

And catch each trembling ray ;Fair as they are, they mind me still Of fairer things than they.

What is the breath of closing flowers

But Feeling's gentlest sigh?

What are the dew-drops' crystal showers

But tears from Pity's eye?

What are the glowworms by the rill
But Fancy's flashes gay?

I love them, for they mind me still

Of one more dear than they.

MISS MITFORD.

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