Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth:
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the lyre!
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors
Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;

Melody resigns to fate.

Jonathan Swift.

CCCLXXII.

THE FLOWER.

ALONE, across a foreign plain,
The Exile slowly wanders,
And on his Isle beyond the main
With sadden'd spirit ponders:

This lovely Isle beyond the sea,
With all its household treasures;
Its cottage homes, its merry birds,
And all its rural pleasures:

Its leafy woods, its shady vales,

Its moors, and purple heather;
Its verdant fields bedeck'd with stars
His childhood loved to gather:

When lo! he starts, with glad surprise,
Home-joys come rushing o'er him,
For "modest, wee, and crimson-tipp'd,"
He spies the flower before him!

With eager haste he stoops him down,
His eyes with moisture hazy,
And as he plucks the simple bloom,
He murmurs, "Lawk-a-daisy!"

Thomas Hood.

CCCLXXIII.

TO A FISH OF THE BROOKE.

WHY flyest thou away with fear?
Trust me there's nought of danger near,
I have no wicked hooke

All cover'd with a snaring bait,

Alas, to tempt thee to thy fate,

And dragge thee from the brooke.

O harmless tenant of the flood,
I do not wish to spill thy blood,
For Nature unto thee

Perchance hath given a tender wife,
And children dear, to charm thy life,
As she hath done for me.

Enjoy thy stream, O harmless fish;
And when an angler for his dish,
Through gluttony's vile sin,
Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee out,
God give thee strength, O gentle trout,
To pull the raskall in!

Dr. John Wolcot

CCCLXXIV.

SONG BY ROGERO.

WHENE'ER with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon, that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me in the U-
-niversity of Gottingen-

-niversity of Gottingen.

(Weeps, and pulls out a blue 'kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds.)

Sweet 'kerchief check'd with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in,

Alas, Matilda then was true,

At least I thought so at the U

-niversity of Gottingen

-niversity of Gottingen.

(At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains in cadence.)

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift ye flew,

Her neat post-waggon trotting in!

Ye bore Matilda from my view;

Forlorn I languish'd at the U

-niversity of Gottingen-
-niversity of Gottingen.

This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many—they were few
When first I enter'd at the U-

-niversity of Gottingen-
-niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu-
-tor, Law Professor at the U-

-niversity of Gottingen-
-niversity of Gottingen.

Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in;
Here doom'd to starve on water-gru-
-el, never shall I see the U-

-niversity of Gottingen!

-niversity of Gottingen!

(During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion. Ile then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops-the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.)

Anti-Jacobin.

CCCLXXV.

THE BURNING OF THE LOVE letter.

No morning ever seem'd so long!—

I tried to read with all my might!

In my left hand "My Landlord's Tales,"
And threepence ready in my right.

'Twas twelve at last-my heart beat high!.-
The Postman rattled at the door!-.
And just upon her road to church,
I dropt the "Bride of Lammermoor!"

I seized the note-I flew up stairs-
Flung-to the door, and lock'd me in-
With panting haste I tore the seal-
And kiss'd the B in Benjamin!

'Twas full of love-to rhyme with dove-
And all that tender sort of thing-

Of sweet and meet-and heart and dart-
But not a word about a ring!-

In doubt I cast it in the flame,

And stood to watch the latest spark-
And saw the love all end in smoke-
Without a Parson and a Clerk!

Thomas Hood.

CCCLXXVI.

THE WATER PERI'S SONG.

FAREWELL, farewell to my mother's own daughter, The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave! The Mussel-man coming to fish in this water,

Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.

This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier,

This greyish Bath cloak is her funeral pall,
And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear
Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all!

Farewell, farewell to the child of Al Hassan,

My mother's own daughter-the last of her race— She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin, And sleeps in the water that washes her face.

CCCLXXVII.

Thomas Hood.

"PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE.”

I'LL tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore:
Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door:
So he call'd upon Lucy-'twas just ten o'clock-
Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock.

Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at,
Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tat:
So Lucy ran up-and in two seconds more
Had question'd the stranger and answer'd the door.

The meeting was bliss; but the parting was woe;
For the moment will come when such comers must go.
So she kiss'd him, and whisper'd-poor innocent thing-
"The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring."
Thomas Hood.

CCCLXXVIII.

IF the man who turnips cries,
Cry not when his father dies,
'Tis a proof that he had rather
Have a turnip than his father.

Samuel Johnson.