SONG.* SUNG BY ROGERO IN THE BURLESQUE PLAY OF I. WHENE'ER with haggard eyes I view -niversity of Gottingen ---niversity of Gottingen. [Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his II. Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue, 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. III. Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Forlorn I languish'd at the U- IV. This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in, There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Mr. Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr. Pitt, who was cognizant of the proceedings of the "Anti-Jacobin" writers, he was so amused with it, that he took up a pen and composed the last stanza on the spot. My years are many-they were few -niversity of Gottingen. V. There first for thee my passion grew, VI. Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu, -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; he then throws The curtain drops; the music still continuing himself on the floor in an agony. to play till it is wholly fallen. THE AMATORY SONNETS OF ABEL SHUFFLE BOTTOM. I. DELIA AT PLAY. ROBERT SOUTHEY. SHE held a Cup and Ball of ivory white, Marking her sport I mused, and musing sighed. Methought the BALL she played with was my HEART; II. THE POET PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE FOR DELIA. Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED. Far from my Delia now by fate removed, III. THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT IN DELIA'S PARLOR. I would I were that portly gentleman With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane, THE LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. I. ROBERT SOUTHEY. THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKER CHIEF. 'Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare? Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, When first with filching fingers I drew near, What though the EIGHTH COMMANDMENT rose to mind, Here, when she took the maccaroons from me, Lips sweeter than the maccaroons she eat. And when she took that pinch of Moccabaw, Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw, And thou art doubly dear for things like these. No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane; For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair, II. THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR. The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains The rose pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair With licensed fingers uncontrolled may rove! Oh could I hope that e'er my favored lays Might curl those lovely locks with conscious pride, Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise, I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside. Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine, The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart; From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line Wherewith the urchin angled for MY HEART. Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads Yet with these tresses Cupid's power, elate, The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair, And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care, |