A BACCHANALIAN

[1769?]

WHAT is war and all its joys?
Useless mischief, empty noise.

What are arms and trophies won?
Spangles glittering in the sun.
Rosy Bacchus, give me wine,
Happiness is only thine!

What is love without the bowl?

'Tis a languor of the soul:
Crowned with ivy, Venus charms,
Ivy courts me to her arms.
Bacchus, give me love and wine,

Happiness is only thine!

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

A RED, RED ROSE.

[1794.]

O MY luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee ftill, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun,
I will luve thee ftill, my dear,
While the sands o' life fhall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel awhile;
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile!

SONG.

ROBERT BURNS.

[1797.]

HEAR, sweet spirit, hear the spell,
Left a blacker charm compel!
So fhall the midnight breezes swell
With thy deep long-lingering knell.

And at evening evermore,
In a chapel on the shore,
Shall the chanter, sad and saintly,
Yellow tapers burning faintly,

Doleful males chant for thee,

Miserere Domine!

Hark! the cadence dies away

On the quiet moonlight sea:

The boatmen reft their oars and say,
Miserere Domine!

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

CHORAL SONG.

[1817.]

UP, up! ye dames, ye laffes gay!
To the meadows trip away.

'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,
And scare the small birds from the corn.
Not a soul at home may stay:

For the shepherds must go

With lance and bow

To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house
To the cricket and the mouse:

Find grannam out a sunny seat,

With babe and lambkin at her feet.
Not a soul at home may stay:
For the shepherds must go

With lance and bow

To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

SONG.

[1806?]

THERE'S not a look, a word of thine,

My soul hath e'er forgot;
Thou ne'er haft bid a ringlet shine,
Nor given thy locks one graceful twine,
Which I remember not.

There never yet a murmur fell

From that beguiling tongue,
Which did not, with a lingering swell,
Upon my charmed senses dwell,
Like songs from Eden sung.

Ah, that I could, at once, forget
All, all that haunts me so;
And yet, thou witching girl, and yet,
To die were sweeter than to let
Thy loved remembrance go.

No; if this flighted heart must see
Its faithful pulse decay,
O let it die, remembering thee,
And, like the burnt aroma, be

Consumed in sweets away!

THOMAS MOORE.

[1806.]

O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art

A creature of a “fiery heart:"

These notes of thine, they pierce and pierce:
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!

Thou fingft as if the God of wine
Had helped thee to a Valentine;

A song in mockery and despite

Of fhades, and dews, and filent night;
And fteady bliss, and all the loves
Now fleeping in these peaceful groves.

I heard a Stock-dove fing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze :
He did not cease; but cooed, and cooed;
And somewhat penfively he wooed:
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the song, the song for me!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON.

[1811.]

Too late I ftayed-forgive the crime,

Unheeded flew the hours;

How noiseless falls the foot of Time,
That only treads on flowers!

What eye with clear account remarks
The ebbing of his glass,
When all its sands are diamond-sparks,
That dazzle as they pass?

Ah, who to sober measurement

Time's happy swiftness brings,
When birds of Paradise have lent
Their plumage for his wings?

HON. WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.