Thus, when life hath stol'n away,
And the wintry night is near;
Thus shall Virtue's friendly ray,
Age's closing evening cheer.

SONG LXXVI.*

BY JAMES THOMSON, ESQ.

If those who live in shepherd's bower
Press not the rich and stately bed;
The new-mown hay and breathing flower
A softer couch beneath them spread.'

If those who sit at shepherd's board,
Soothe not their taste by wanton art;
They take what nature's gifts afford,
And take it with a cheerful heart.

If those who drain the shepherd's bowl,

No high and sparkling wines can boast; With wholesome cups they cheer the soul, And crown them with the village-toast.

If those who join in shepherd's sport,
Gay dancing on the daisied ground,
Have not the splendour of a court;
Yet love adorns the merry round.

In the masque of 'Alfred.'

VOL. II:

P

SONG LXXVII.*

BY. MR. ISAAC BICKERSTAFF.

'Tis not wealth, it is not birth, Can value to the soul convey; Minds possess superior worth,

Which chance nor gives, nor takes away.

Like the sun true merit shows ;

By nature warm, by nature bright;

With inbred flames he nobly glows,
Nor needs the aid of borrow'd light.

SONG LXXVIII.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.

TELL me, on what holy ground
May domestic Peace be found?
Halcyon-daughter of the skies!
Far on fearful wing she flies
From the tyrant's scepter'd state,
From the rebel's noisy hate.

In a cottag'd vale she dwells,
List'ning to the Sabbath-bells,
While all around her steps are seen
Spotless Honour's meeker mien.

In the comic opera of 'Love in a Village.'

Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow, smiling through her tears;
And, mindful of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy!

SONG LXXIX.

BY WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.

THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd by a shower,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd ;

The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cups were all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd;
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snap'd it; it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of winning, and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile
And the tear that is wip'd with a tender address,
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

SONG LXXX.

A SHAKE BY THE HAND.

BY THE REV. JAMES PLUMPTRE.

WHEN my hand thus I proffer, your own O deny not,
Nor offer it cold, nor a finger extend;

It freezes my blood when I find a man shy on't,
'Tis delightful when shook with the warmth of a friend.
For the hand of the heart is the index, declaring
If well or if ill, how its master will stand;

I heed not the tongue, of its friendship that's
swearing,

I judge of a friend by the shake of his hand.

Yet 'tis not with each new-hatch'd comrade,' I'd shake

me,

Be mine the tried friend, whose warm heart shall

expand,

Who in wealth or in sorrow will never forsake me,
And the truth of whose heart I shall feel in his hand.

For the hand, &c.

Oh! I hate for to see it abus'd at election,

In a canvas of votes from each holder of land;

The

purpose when gain'd, you shall meet with rejection, Seven years it will be ere again you've his hand.

For the hand, &c.

Then for friends, and friends only, this token reserving, For them be it ever at will to command;

But let each be thy friend, who at all is deserving,
And give him thy heart with a shake of the hand.
For the hand of the heart is the index, declaring

If well or if ill, how its master will stand :

I heed not the tongue, of its friendship that's swearing,

I judge of a friend by the shake of his hand.

SONG LXXXI.

DEATH OR LIBERTY.

WHILE happy in my native land,
I boast my country's charter;
I'll never basely lend my hand,
Her liberties to barter.

The noble mind is not at all

By poverty degraded ;

'Tis guilt alone can make us fall:

And well I am persuaded,

Each free-born Briton's song should be,

Or give me death or liberty.

Though small the power which Fortune grants,

And few the gifts she sends us;

The lordly hireling often wants

That freedom which defends us.

By law secur'd from lawless strife,
Our house is our castellum;

Thus bless'd with all that's dear in life,

For lucre shall we sell 'em?
No :-every Briton's song
shall be,
Or give me death or liberty.