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- THE MAD MAID'S SONG.
GOOD-MORROW to the day so fair
Good-morrow, sir, to you;
Bedabbled with the dew.
Good-morrow to this primrose too;
Good-morrow to each maid, That will with flow'rs the tomb bestrew,
Wherein my love is laid.
I'll seek him there ! I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him ; But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.
Pray, hurt him not; though he be dead
He knows well who do love him; And who with green-turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him,
He's soft and tender—pray, take heed
With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home-but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.
HARD is the fate of him who loves, ::
Yet dares not tell his trembling pain, But to the sympathetic groves,
But to the lonely list’ning plain.
Oh! when she blesses next your shade,
Oh! when her footsteps next are seen In flow'ry tracks along the mead,
In fresher mazes o’er the green.
Ye gentle spirits of the vale,
To whom the tears of love are dear, . From dying lilies waft a gale,
And sigh my sorrows in her ear.
Oh, tell her what she cannot blame,
Though fear my tongue must ever bind, Oh, tell her that my virtuous flame
Is as her spotless soul refin’d.
Not her own guardian angel eyes,
With chaster tenderness his care, Not purer her own wishes rise,
Not holier her own sighs in prayer.
But if at first her virgin fear
Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship soothe her ear
True love and friendship are the same.
THE FOND LOVER.
A NYMPH of ev'ry charm possessid,
That native virtue gives,
In bright idea lives.
Along the pathless deep,
The winds in concert weep.
If beauty's sacred influence charms
The rage of adverse fate,
Such cruel pangs create ?
Unartful truth express,
To give my soul distress ?
If when her blooming lips I press,
Which vernal fragrance fills,
In trembling motion thrills;
Congenial with my joy?
Should vital peace destroy ?
If when my fair, in melting song,
Awakes the vocal lay,
Such pleasing sounds convey;
Why heaves this broken sigh? For then my blood forgets to move,
I gaze, adore, and die.
Accept, my charming maid, the strain
Which you alone inspire ;
That quiver on my lyre.
That knows no joy but thee; i
Or deign to love like me.
For tenderness framed in life's early day,
The nightingale plunder’d, the mate-widow'd dove,
Soft embers of passion yet rest in the glow-