THE SOLDIER. WHAT dreaming drone was ever bless'd By thinking of the morrow? To-day be mine, I leave the rest To all the fools of sorrow: Give me the mind that mocks at care; On comes the foe,-to arms—to arms,- Or fame in Britain's story. Dear native land! thy fortunes frown, 'Tis you, 'tis I that meet the ball; In battle with the brave to fall But thou, dark is thy flowing hair, Love, friendship, honour, all are thine, Thy country and thy duty. W. SMYTH. SONG. WHEN the black-letter'd list to the gods was presented (The list of what Fate for each mortal intends), At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipp'd in three blessings, wife, children, and friends. In vain surly Pluto maintain'd he was cheated, For justice divine could not compass its ends; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, [and friends. For earth becomes heaven with wife, children, If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, The fund ill secured oft in bankruptcy ends; But the heart issues bills which are never protested When drawn on the firm of wife, children, and friends. Though valour still glows in his life's waning embers, The death-wounded tar, who his colours defends, Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers How bless'd was his home with wife, children, and friends. The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover, [ascends, Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover [and friends. The bower where he sat with wife, children, The dayspring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow, Alone on itself for enjoyment depends; But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow No warmth from the smiles of wife, children, and friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends; O'er me wave the willow! and long may it flourish, [friends. Bedew'd with the tears of wife, children, and Let us drink-for my song, growing graver and graver, To subjects too solemn insensibly tends; Let us drink-pledge me high-Love and Virtue shall flavour [friends. The glass which I fill to wife, children, and HON. W. R. SPENCER. THE MELANCHOLY MOTHER'S CRADLE SONG *. HUSH, my baby! hush to rest! Slumber bless thy pillow: Sleep no more shall calm this breast, Toss'd like ocean's billow. *Written for an air composed by my friend, S. C. Brown, Esq. VOL. III. 00 Hush, my babe! may Peace still spread O'er thy couch her pinion; Though thy hapless mother's head Bends to woe's dominion. Since, despising love and truth, R. A. DAVENPORT. THE PRAISES OF WINE. Он moment most bless'd in the short life of man! Brightest spot of enjoyment in time's gloomy span! When, just languid enough for delight, we recline By the fire's cheerful blaze o'er the fast flowing wine, With sensations too soothing for words to express, Then, then gushing forth from the rapturous soul, Nay, vain is the censure that aims at the mind, Calls his mirth void of fancy, his joy insincereWho can recognise Oldham and Rochester here? Or, to leave those choice wits and choice fellows of yore, Who will own this the picture of Morris and Moore? Renovation to hope, inspiration to song: Age gathers fresh verdure from wonderful wine, And the best bloom of youth, radiant liquor, is thine ! Thou easest the captive, thou lull'st to repose The sad eye that too long has forgotten to close; All, all canst thou conquer-ah! wouldst thou but prove Victorious for me over absence and love. HODGSON. DRINKING SONG. I CANNOT eat but little meat, My stomach is not good; I am nothing a cold, I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old. |