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And does that thought affect thee too,
The thought of Sylvio's death,
That he who only breathes for you
Must yield that faithful breath?
Hush'd be that sigh, be dried that tear,
Nor let us lose our heaven here.

SHERIDAN.

SONG.

IN 'THE STRANGER.'

I HAVE a silent sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart;
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart!

This cherish'd woe, this loved despair,
My lot for ever be;

So, my soul's lord, the pangs I bear
Be never known by thee!

And when pale characters of death
Shall mark this alter'd cheek;
When my poor wasted, trembling breath
My life's last hope would speak-

I will not raise my eyes to Heaven,
Nor mercy ask for me;
My soul despairs to be forgiven,

Unpardon'd, love, by thee.

SHERIDAN.

IN PITY, FOND BOSOM, LIE STILL. YES, now I shall think of that heart-broken maid Whom in days of my childhood I knew; All night she would weep in the cold willow shade, And her tears mingle warm with the dew! I have heard her exclaim, as she sadly reclined 'Mid the willows all dripping and chill, I have heard her exclaim while she shrunk in

' In pity, fond bosom, lie still!' [the wind, The youth whom she loved had been torn from By a fate too severely unkind, [her arms Thus wither'd, alas! was the rose of her charms, And clouded the beams of her mind! Sweet mourner! thy fortunes may haply be mine, And I feel in my heart that they will; Then sad shall I sing, with a sorrow like thine, ' In pity, fond bosom, lie still!'

T. MOORE.

you,

TO HENRY.

WHILE I hang on your bosom, distracted to lose [flow, High swells my sad heart, and fast my tears Yet think not of coldness they fall to accuse you, Did I ever upbraid you? Oh! no, my love, no! I own it would please me, at home would you Nor e'er feel a wish from Maria to go; [tarry, But if it gives pleasure to you, my dear Harry, Shall I blame your departure? Oh! no, my love, no!

VOL. III.

LL

Now do not, dear Hal, while abroad you are

straying,

That heart which is mine on a rival bestow; Nay, banish that frown, such displeasure betray[no!

ing,

Do you think I suspect you? Oh! no, my love,

I believe you too kind for one moment to grieve me, Or plant in a heart which adores you such woe; Yet should you dishonour my truth and deceive [love, no! Should I e'er cease to love you? Oh! no, my

me,

M. G. LEWIS.

SONG.

I DANCED with Harriet at the fair,
And praised her for her jetty hair,
Which, like the tendrils of a vine,
About her brow in wanton twine

Luxuriantly ran;

But why I praised her, sweet one, know,
Because I recollected, so
The tresses negligently flow

About the cheeks of Anne.

One evening in the passion week,

When Lucy play'd at hide and seek,

Her black eyes shone like glowworms bright,

And led me by their sparkling light

To find out where she ran;

But if I praised them, sweet one, know,
I recollected, even so

The black eyes sparkle, burn, and glow
Of gentle mistress Anne.

Louisa's lips in kisses meet,

Like a twin cherry ripe and sweet;
In Catherine's breath rich perfume dwells;
But ah! how Julia's bosom swells,

To charm the gaze of man!

Yet if I praise them, sweet one, know,
They singly but remind me, so

Lips, breath, and bosom I can show
All blent in mistress Anne.

SONG.

LEFTLY.

SWEET is the balmy evening hour,

And mild the glowworm's light, And soft the breeze that sweeps the flower With pearly dew-drops bright. I love to loiter on the hill,

And catch each trembling ray ;-
Fair as they are, they mind me still
Of fairer things than they.

What is the breath of closing flowers
But Feeling's gentlest sigh?
What are the dew-drops' crystal showers
But tears from Pity's eye?
What are the glowworms by the rill
But Fancy's flashes gay?

I love them, for they mind me still
Of one more dear than they.

MISS MITFORD.

SONG.

I LIKE not beauty's roseate brightness;
I like not beauty's sparkling eye:
Give me the cheek whose marble whiteness
Feeling's faint blush alone can dye;

Give me the pure and tranquil glance
Where no vain triumphs proudly dance,
Serene and blue as heaven's expanse ;-
Thy cheeks, thine eyes, my Mary!

I like not lips for ever smiling;
I like not speech for ever gay:
Give me the softness more beguiling
Which gently veils wit's brilliant ray;
Give me the mellow voice that tells
What sweetness in the bosom dwells;
The sigh that oft that bosom swells ;-
Thy voice, thy sigh, my Mary!

MISS MITFORD.

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SONG.

No-not the eye of tender blue,
Though, Mary, 'twere the tint of thine,
Or breathing lip, of glowing hue,
Might bid the opening rose repine,

Had long enthrall'd my mind;
Nor tint with tint, alternate aiding,
That o'er the dimpled tablet flow,
The vermil to the lily fading,-
Nor ringlet bright with orient glow,
In many a tendril twined.