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See they fly amaz'd through rocks and sands,

One danger they grasp at, to shun the greater fate; In vain they cry for aid to weeping lands;

The nymphs and sea-gods mourn their lost estate. For evermore adieu, thou Royal dazzling Sun, From thy untimely end thy master's fate begun : Enough, thou mighty god of War !

Now we sing,

Bless the king,
Let us drink to every English tar.

SONG LXVI.

BY MRS. BARBAULD.

Through many a land and clime a ranger,

With toilsome steps I've led my way, A lonely unprotected stranger,

To all the stranger's ills a prey.

While steering thus my course precarious,

My fortune still has been to find Men's hearts and dispositions various,

But gentle woman ever kind.

Alive to ev'ry tender feeling,

To deeds of mercy always prone,
The wounds of pain and sorrow healing

With soft Compassion's sweetest tone.

No proud delay, no dark suspicion

Stints the free bounty of their heart, They turn not from the sad petition,

But cheerful aid at once impart.

Form'd in benevolence of nature,

Obliging, modest, gay and mild, Woman's the same endearing creature,

In courtly town and savage wild.

When parch'd with thirst, by hunger wasted,

Nor friendly hand refreshment gave, How sweet the coarsest food has tasted,

What cordial in the simple wave.

Her courteous looks, her words caressing,

Shed comfort on the fainting soul, Woman's the stranger's general blessing,

From sultry India to the Pole.

SONG LXVII.*

A NEGRO SONG.

BY GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE.

The loud wind roar'd, the rain fell fast,
The white man yielded to the blast.
He sat him down beneath a tree,
For weary, sad, and faint was he:

* Taken from Mr. Mungo Park's Travels in Africa.,

And, ah! no wife, or mother's care,
For him the milk or corn prepare.

CHORUS

The white man shall our pity share :
Alas! no wife or mother's care
For him the milk or corn prepare.

The storm is o'er, the tempest past,
And Mercy's voice has hush'd the blast.
The wind is heard in whispers low ;
The white man far away must go :
But ever in his heart will bear
Remembrance of the negro's care.

CHORUS.

Go, white man, go : but with thee bear The negro's wish, the negro's pray'r, Remembrance of the negro's care.

SONG LXVIII.

WOMAN.

Woman, dear woman, in whose name

Wife, sister, mother meet;
Thine is the heart by earliest claim,

And thine it's latest beat.
In thee the angel-virtues shine,

An angel-form to thee is givin:
Then be an angel's office thine,

And lead the soul to Heav'n.

From thee we draw our infant strength,

Thou art our childhood's friend ;
And when the man unfolds at length,

On thee his hopes depend :
For round the heart thy pow'r has spun

A thousand dear mysterious ties:
Then take the heart thy charms have won,

And nurse it for the skies.

SONG LXIX.

MORNING AND EVENING.

BY

MISS

JOANNA BAILLIE.*

Say, sweet carol! who are they
Who cheerly greet the rising day?
Little birds in leafy bow'r;
Swallows twitt'ring on the tow'r;
Larks upon the light air borne;
Hunters rous'd with shrilly horn ;
The woodman whistling on his way ;
The new-wak'd child at early play,
Who barefoot prints the dewy green,

Winking to the sunny sheen;
And the meek maid who binds her yellow hair,
And blithely doth her daily task prepare.

Say, sweet carol! who are they
Who welcome in the evening gray ?

* From this distinguished lady's tragedy of ' Ethwald ;' which she has ingeniously adapted to the æra of the Saxon beptarchy.

The housewife trim, and merry lout,
Who sit the blazing fire about :
The sage a-conning o'er his book;
The tired wight in rushy nook,
Who, half a-sleep, but faintly hears
The gossip’s.tale hum in his ears ;
The loosen'd steed in grassy stall ;

The thanies feasting in the hall;
But most of all the maid of cheerful soul
Who fills her peaceful warrior's flowing bowl.

SONG LXX.

BY SCOTT OF AMWELL.

I HATE that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round and round and round,
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace and glittering arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round and round and round,
To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs and dying groans,
And widows' tears, and orphans' moans,
And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.

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