May I govern my passions with absolute sway, With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more With a pudding on Sundays, with stout humming liquor, With Monte Fiascone or Burgundy wine,* To drink the king's health as oft as I dine. And grow wiser and better as strength wears away, last day; With a courage In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow, It seems odd to modern notions, that so sensible a gentleman, who governed his passions with absolute sway, should have ever "got mellow" at all. Drunkenness, however, was considered a venial vice in those days by the few who did not consider it a positive virtue "in the evening." * Some versions substitute for this line the following: "With a hidden reserve of good Burgundy wine." GENTLY STIR. A parody, attributed to DEAN SWIFT, on a popular song by A. Bradley, beginning "Gently strike the warbling lyre," by Geminiani. GENTLY stir and blow the fire, In the dripping put a toast, On the dresser see it lie, Oh, the charming white and red! On the sweetest grass it fed: On the table spread the cloth, Let the knives be sharp and clean : Let them each be fresh and green : Several attempts have been made to raise eating into the dignity, which drinking has so long enjoyed, of being a theme for song, but all in vain. "The Roast Beef of Old England" is the only exception, amid a mass of failures. DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. WILLIAM COLLINS. Set as a glee for four voices by Mrs. PARK. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch shall here be seen, The redbreast oft at evening hours When howling winds and beating rain Each lonely scene shall thee restore, SWEET MAY. ERASMUS DARWIN, born 1721, died 1802. BORN in yon blaze of orient sky, For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow, And brighter blossoms gem the bower, Light Graces, drest in flowery wreaths, And tiptoe Joys their hands combine, And Love his sweet contagion breathes, And laughing dances round thy shrine, Warm with new life, the glittering throngs, On quivering fin and rustling wing, Delighted join their votive songs, And hail thee Goddess of the Spring, "Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true-love thou didst see." "And how should I know your true-love But chiefly by his face and mien, "O lady, he is dead and gone! Within these holy cloisters long They bore him barefaced on his bier, "And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ?> "Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so, "Oh, do not, do not, holy friar, And now, alas! for thy sad loss For thee I only wish'd to live, 66 For thee I wish to die." 'Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain ; For violets pluck'd, the sweetest shower Will ne'er make grow again. Our joys as wingèd dreams do fly, |