TILL DEATH I SYLVIA MUST ADORE.

From "The Hive." A collection of Songs in four volumes, 12mo., 1726.

TILL death I Sylvia must adore;
No time my freedom can restore;
For though her rigour makes me smart,
Yet when I strive to free my heart,
Straight all my senses take her part.

And when against the cruel maid,
I call my reason to my aid;
By that, alas! I plainly see
That nothing lovely is, but she;
And reason captivates me more,
Than all my senses did before.

WHY, LOVELY CHARMER.
From "The Hive."

WHY, lovely charmer, tell me why,
So very kind, and yet so shy?
Why does that cold forbidding air
Give damps of sorrow and despair?
Or why that smile my soul subdue,
And kindle up my flames anew?

In vain you strive with all your art,
By turns to fire and freeze my heart;
When I behold a face so fair,
So sweet a look, so soft an air,
My ravish'd soul is charmed all o'er,
I cannot love thee less or more.

UNHAPPY LOVE.

From "The Hive."

I SEE she flies me everywhere,
Her eyes her scorn discover,

But what's her scorn, or my despair,
Since 'tis my fate to love her?

Were she but kind whom I adore

I might live longer, but no love her more.

TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE. ·

GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON, born 1709, died 1773,
WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Awed by a thousand tender fears,
I would approach, but dare not move;—
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice than her's can hear;
No other wit but her's approve ;—
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

If she some other swain commend,
Tho' I was once his fondest, friend,
His instant enemy I prove;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleased before,
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove;—
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

THE SHAPE ALONE.

Ritson assigns this song to AKENSIDE (born 1721, died 1770), but it is not

contained in his works.

THE shape alone let others prize,

The features of the fair;

I look for spirit in her eyes,
And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek and ivory arm

Shall ne'er my wishes win;

Give me an animated form

That speaks a mind within;

D

But ah! where both their charms unite,

How perfect is the view,

With every image of delight,

With graces ever new!

Of power to charm the deepest woe
The wildest rage control;
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,
And rapture thro' the soul.

Their power but faintly to express
All language must despair;
But go behold Aspasia's face,
And read it perfect there.

O NANCY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME?

THOMAS PERCY, D.D., Bishop of Dromore, editor of the "Relics of Ancient English Poetry," born 1728, died 1811.

O NANCY wilt thou go with me,
Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?
Can silent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot and russet gown?
No longer drest in silken sheen,

No longer deck'd with jewels rare,
Say, can'st thou quit each courtly scene.
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nancy! when thou'rt far away,
Wilt thou not cast a wish behind?
Say, canst thou face the parching ray,
Nor shrink before the wintry wind?
O can that soft and gentle mien,

Extremes of hardship learn to bear,
Nor sad regret each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nancy! can'st thou love so true,
Through perils keen with me to go,
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,
To share with him the pang of woe?
Say, should disease or pain befall,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall,
Where thou wert fairest of the air?

And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,
And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay,

Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear,
Nor then regret those scenes so gay,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

9

Robert Burns affirmed this song to be the most beautiful composition of its kina in the English language.

DEAR BETTY.

SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

DEAR Betty, come give me sweet kisses,
For sweeter no girl ever gave;
But why, in the midst of our blisses,
Do you ask me how many I'd have?
I'm not to be stinted in pleasure;

Then prithee, dear Betty be kind;
For as I love thee beyond measure,
To numbers I'll not be confined.

Count the bees that on Hybla are straying,

Count the flowers that enamel the fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempé are playing,
Or the grains that each Sicily yields;
Count how many stars are in Heaven;
Go reckon the sands on the shore,
And when so many kisses you've given,
I still will be asking for more.

To a heart full of love let me hold thee,
A heart, that dear Betty is thine;
In my arms I'll for ever enfold thee,

And curl round thy neck like a vine.
What joy can be greater than this is?

My life on thy lips shall be spent; .
But those who can number their kisses
Will always with few be content.

Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, Bart., wrote a great number of political and other songs, which, with his other works were published in 1822, in 3 vols., from the original MSS. in the possession of his grandson the Earl of Essex, with notes by Horace Walpole. This song-the only one of the many which is a shade above mediocrity—is an imitation of Martial, lib. vi. Ep. xxxiv. The greater portion of the songs of this writer were produced between 1730 and 1745.

WHEN LOVELY WOMAN.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, born 1731, died 1774.
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,

And wring his bosom, is-to die.1

1 "For elegant simplicity of language, harmony of versification, and pointed neatness of composition," says Dr. Aikin in his Vocal Poetry,'" there are not perhaps, to be found in the language two more finished stanzas than these, which are introduced in 'The Vicar of Wakefield.'" It may be doubted whether Dr. Aikins's eulogium be deserved. To die is not an 'art.' And, independently of this verbal objection, the philosophy of the song is not irreproachable.