CXXX.

SONG.

CHARLES DIBDIN,

1745-1814.

BLOW

high, blow low, let

tempests tear

The main-mast by the board;

My heart, with thoughts of thee, my dear,

And love well stored,

Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear,

The roaring winds, the raging sea,

In hopes on shore

To be once more

Safe moored with thee.

Aloft while mountains high we go,

The whistling winds that scud along,

And the surge roaring from below,
Shall my signal be

To think on thee,

And this shall be my song:

Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear
The main-mast by the board.

And on that night when all the crew

The memory of their former lives,

O'er flowing cans of flip renew,

And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh and think on thee;

And, as the ship rolls through the sea,

The burthen of my song shall be,

Blow high, blow low, let tempests tear

The main-mast by the board.

CXXXI.

SONG.

WILLIAM BLAKE,

1757-1827.

HOW sweet I roamed from field to field,

And tasted all the summer's pride,

Till I the Prince of Love beheld,

Who in the sunny beams did glide.

He shewed me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net,

And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;

Then stretches out my golden wing,

And mocks my loss of liberty.

CXXXII.

SONG.

Y silks and fine array,

MY

My smiles and languished air,

By love are driven away;

And mournful lean Despair

Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven

When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was 't given,

Whose heart is wintry cold?

His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb,
Where all Love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding-sheet;

When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat :
Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay:
True love doth pass away!

CXXXIII

TO THE MUSES.

'HETHER on Ida's shady brow,

W1

Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, that now From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Wandering in many a coral grove;
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,

The sound is forced, the notes are few.