Some ballads he bought me-the best he could find—
And sweetly their burthen he sung;

Good faith, he's so handsome, so witty, and kind,
I'd wed-if I were not so young.

The sun was just setting, 'twas time to retire
(Our cottage was distant a mile);

I rose to begone-Roger bow'd like a squire,
And handed me over the stile.

His arm he threw round me-Love laughed in his
He led me the meadows among ;

There prest me so close, I agreed, with a sigh,

To wed-for I was not too young.

eye

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

A LOVE PASTORAL.

HER sheep had in clusters crept close by the grove,
To hide from the rigours of day;

And Phillis herself, in a woodbine alcove,

Among the fresh violets lay:

A youngling it seems had been stole from its dam
('Twixt Cupid and Hymen a plot),

That Corydon might, as he searched for his lamb,
Arrive at this critical spot.

As through the gay hedge for his lambkin he peeps,
He saw the sweet maid with surprise;

'Ye gods, if so killing,' he cried, 'when she sleeps,
I'm lost when she opens her eyes!

To tarry much longer would hazard my heart,
I'll onwards my lambkin to trace :'
In vain honest Corydon strove to depart,
For love had him nail'd to the place.

A LOVE PASTORAL-FRIENDSHIP.

247

'Hush, hush'd be these birds! what a bawling they keep!' He cried; 'you're too loud on the spray.

Don't you see, foolish lark, that the charmer's asleep?
You'll wake her as sure as 'tis day!

How dare that fond butterfly touch the sweet maid!
Her cheek he mistakes for the rose;

I'd put him to death, if I was not afraid
My boldness would break her repose.'

Young Phillis look'd up with a languishing smile,
'Kind shepherd,' she said, 'you mistake;

I laid myself down just to rest me awhile,
But, trust me, have still been awake.'

The shepherd took courage, advanc'd with a bow,
He placed himself close by her side,
And managed the matter, I cannot tell how,
But yesterday made her his bride.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

FRIENDSHIP.

FOND Love with all his winning wiles
Of tender looks and flattering smiles,
Of accents that might Juno charm,
Or Dian's colder ear alarm;

No more shall play the tyrant's part,
No more shall lord it o'er my heart.

To Friendship, sweet benignant power!
I consecrate my humble bower,
My lute, my muse, my willing mind.
And fix her in my heart enshrined;
She, heaven-descended queen, shall be
My tutelar divinity.

Soft Peace descends to guard her reign
From anxious fear and jealous pain;
She no delusive hope displays,

But calmly guides our tranquil days;
Refines our pleasures, soothes our care,
And gives the joys of Eden here.

ELIZABETH RYVES.

LOVE AND GOLD.

THOUGH love and each harmonious maid
To gentle Sappho lent their aid,
Yet, deaf to her enchanting tongue,
Proud Phaon scorned her melting song.

Mistaken nymph! hadst thou adored
Fair Fortune, and her smiles implored;
Had she indulgent owned thy claim,
And given thee wealth instead of fame;

Though harsh thy voice, deformed and old,
Yet such th' omnipotence of gold,

The youth had soon confess'd thy charms,
And flown impatient to thy arms.

ELIZABETH RYVES.

THE SYLPH LOVER.

HERE in this fragrant bower I dwell,

And nightly here repose;

My couch a lily's snowy bell,

My canopy a rose.

THE SYLPH LOVER-ON SONGS.

The honey-dew each morn I sip

That hangs upon the violet's lip;
And like the bee, from flower to flower
I careless rove at noontide hour.

Regardless as I lately strayed
Along the myrtle grove,
Enchanting music round me played,
Soft as the voice of love.

Thus its sweet murmurs seem'd to say:
'Fond, thoughtless wanton, come away;
For while you rove, a rival's charms

Wins thy Myrtilla to his arms.'

249

ELIZABETH RYVES.

ON SONGS.

O TENDER Songs!

Heart-heavings of the breast, that longs

Its best-beloved to meet;

You tell of love's delightful hours,

Of meetings amid jasmine bowers,

And vows, like perfume of young flowers,
As fleeting-but more sweet.

O glorious songs!

That rouse the brave 'gainst tyrant wrongs,
Resounding near and far;

Mingled with trumpet and with drum,
Your spirit-stirring summons come,
And urge the hero from his home,
And arm him for the war.

O mournful songs!

When sorrow's host, in gloomy throngs,
Assail the widowed heart;

You sing, in softly-soothing strain,

The praise of those whom death hath ta’en,
And tell that we shall meet again,
And meet no more to part.

O lovely songs—
Breathings of heaven! to you belongs

The empire of the heart.

Enthroned in memory, still reign

O'er minds of prince, and peer, and swain,
With gentle power, that knows not wane,
Till thought and life depart.

THOMAS DERMODY.

WHEN I SAT BY MY FAIR.

WHEN I sat by my fair, and she tremblingly told
The soft wishes and doubts of her heart,

How quickly old Time then delightfully rolled,
For love lent the plume from his dart!

From the blush of her cheek, how my bosom caught flame,

And her eyes spoke a fondness her lips would not name.

But her cheek, that once rivalled the summer's full rose, Now as April's sad primrose is pale;

In her eye, now, no bright sensibility glows,

Though I breathe forth truth's rapturous tale; And thy moments, old Time, that on downy feet fled, Ah me! are now fettered and weighty as lead.