HOW SWEET IN THE WOODLANDS. How sweet in the woodlands, with fleet hound and horn, Assist me, chaste Dian, the nymph to regain, THE EXCISEMAN. To a village that skirted the sea, And where is the head can bear more? Says the Exciseman, Let's see your permit. For you've smuggl'd that stuff, and you know it: For seeing you've paid no excise, Now don't be so hard, said poor Mike: Four miles in hot sun-shine they trudg'd, To the custom-house in the next town, Your permit! Why not show it before? For that load made my bones fit to crack; ww THE SAILOR'S ADIEU. WHENCE Comes this keen, this cutting smart? Why doth the tear unbidden start? Why beats my sad, my sinking heart— Thus heavily? Eliza-'tis because I part My life!-from thee. Tost on the rude and foaming wave, In distant climes I go to brave The furious sea My doom, perhaps, a watery grave, Far-far from thee. Oh say, thou all on earth I prize! To speed my way? Wilt thou?-but see, the signal flies! By storms that sweep the deep abyss- Dear girl! be true! THE FATHER OF NANCY. THE father of Nancy a forester was, And an honest old woodman was he, And Nancy a beautiful, innocent lass, As the sun in his circuit could see. She gather'd wild-flowers, and lilies, and roses, And cry'd thro' the village-Come buy my sweet posies. The charms of this fair one a villager caught, Great offers he made, but by Nancy was taught, She still gather'd wild-flowers, &c. The father of Nancy a forester was, And a poor little stroller was she; But her lover, so noble, soon married the lass: No more gather'd wild-flowers, and lilies and roses, THE FRIEND AND PITCHER. THE wealthy fool, with gold in store, My charming girl, my friend and pitcher. My friend so rare, my girl so fair, ; With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher. From morning sun I'd never grieve Though Fortune ever shuns my door, (I know not what can thus bewitch her), With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher. THE TEAR. ON beds of snow the moon-beam slept, A warm tear gush'd, the wintry air An angel, wand'ring from his sphere, MARY, I BELIEV'D THEE TRUE. MARY, I believ'd thee true, And I was blest in thus believing; * This piece, which were we to call merely beautiful, it would reflect little credit on our poetical taste, is from the pen of THOMAS MOORE, the celebrated living poet of Ireland. There is a delicacy of description, and an originality of thought runs through it, which is attainable only by uncommon talents. It is surely impossible for the diadem of Pity to be decorated with a brighter gem than the lively imagination of this poet has supplied it with. |