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2. SONG: I'D BE A BUTTERFLY. I'd be a butterfly born in a bow'r,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet ; Roving for ever from flower to flower,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I'd never languish for wealth or for power,
I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet, I'd be a butterfly born in a bow'r,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. Oh could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,
I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings ;
They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary,
Power, alas ! nought but misery brings; I'd be a butterfly sportive and airy,
Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings. What though you
tell me each
little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day, Surely 'tis better when summer is over,
To die, when all fair things are fading away.
Means of procuring a weary delay ;
3. SONG: OH NO, WE NEVER MENTION ATR Oh, no! we never mention her,
Her name is never heard ;
That once familiar word.
To banish my regret ;
They think that I forget.
The charms that others see;
They'd find no change in me.
'Tis true that I behold no more
The valley where we met;
But how can I forget ?
Recal the past to me;
The billows of the sea.
Before the sun is set;
Forbids me to forget.
The gayest of the gay;
I heed not what they say:
Each feeling of regret ;
She never can forget.
veil that mantles earth
CCCXL. HENRY NEELE, 1799--1828
And guide me through this world of care ;
prayer O Thou ! whose blood was spilt to save Man's nature from a second
And listen ! listen ! listen to an infant's prayer !
And build thyself a temple there;
THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE.
poor man's grave a lesson learn,
And yet an honest man!
But all unknown to fame;
He did not lack a name!
When they had need to call ;
For he was kind to all !
Found him a friend most sure;
For he rejoiced in others' weal,
Although himself was poor.
Made all that he possess'd
Which made it doubly blest.
His days in peace did flow-
And now he sleeps below!
CCCXLII. HERBERT KNOWLES, 1798—18''
LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD.
Methinks it is good to be here;
Shall we build to Ambition ? oh, no!
For, see! they would pin him below,
To Beauty ? ah, no!-she forgets
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
Shall we build to the purple of Pride-
Alas' they are all laid aside ;
To Riches ? alas ! 'tis in vain ;
The treasures are squandered again ;
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford-
Ah! here is a plentiful board!
Shall we build to Affection and Love ?
Or fled with the spirit above;
Unto Sorrow !—The dead cannot grieve;
Which compassion itself could relieve ! Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fearPeace, peace is the watchword, the only one here !
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ?
And here there are trophies enow!
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled ; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies
CCCXLIII. ROB. POLLOK, 1799–1827.
Ill-guided wretch! Thou mightst have seen him at the midnight hour, When good men slept, and in light-winged dreams Ascended up to God, -in wasteful hall, With vigilance and fasting worn to skin And bone, and wrapt in most debasing rags:Thou mightst have seen him bending o'er his heaps, And holding strange communion with his gold ; And as his thievish fancy seemed to hear The night-man's foot approach, starting alarmed, And in his old, decrepit, withered hand,