THE MAD MAID'S SONG. [HERRICK.] GOOD-MORROW to the day so fair Good-morrow, sir, to you ; Good-morrow to this primrose too; That will with flow'rs the tomb bestrew, 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. X He's soft and tender-pray, take heed- [THOMSON.] HAR ARD 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, But if at first her virgin fear Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship soothe her earTrue love and friendship are the same. 4 THE FOND LOVER. [FALCONER.] A NYMPH of ev'ry charm possess'd, That native virtue gives, Within my bosom all confess'd, In bright idea lives. For her my trembling numbers play Along the pathless deep, While sadly social with my lay The winds in concert weep. If beauty's sacred influence charms Say why the pleasing soft alarms Since all her thoughts by sense refin'd, Say wherefore sense and truth are join'd If when her blooming lips I press, Say whence this secret anguish grows And why the touch, where pleasure glows, If when my fair, in melting song, Not all your notes, ye Phocian throng, Such pleasing sounds convey; For then my blood forgets to move, Accept, my charming maid, the strain To thee the dying strings complain Oh! give this bleeding bosom ease, [BURGOYNE.] 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 glowA warmth of more pain may this breast never know, Or if too indulgent the blessing I claim, Let reason awaken and govern the flame. |