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2. TUE PARTING KISS: A SONG.
One kind wish before we part,

Drop a tear, and bid adieu :
Though we sever, my fond heart,

Till we meet, shall pant for you.
Yet, yet weep not so, my love,

Let me kiss that falling tear;
Though my body must remove,

All my soul will still be here.
All my soul, and all my heart,

And every wish shall pant for you;
One kind kiss, then, ere we part,

Drop a tear, and bid adieu.
CLVIII. MOSES BROWN, 1703-1787.

MISTS OF THE MIND.

A cloudy paleness dims the skies,
And floating mists from steaming rivers rise :
See! the blue fogs bespread the fenny ground,
And fill the chilly air with damps unsound;
A sultry noon the danky vapour shews
And evening plenteous of refreshing dews.

No seasons please when griefs the mind o'erpower Griefs gloom alike the morn and midnight hour. Damp fall the piercing mists, a chilling air ! "Till cheer'd by milder skies, thy sports forbear, 'Till from the banks recedes the unhealthy dew; At eve, more blithe, our pastimes we'll renew.

CLIX. WILLIAM HAMILTON, 1704–1754.

THE TOMB OF LOVE.

See a tomb, its gates displayed,
Expands an everlasting shade.
Oye inhabitants, that dwell
Each forgotten in your cell,
0
say,

for whom of human race
Has fate decreed this hiding-place i

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And hark! methinks a spirit calls,
Low winds the whisper round the walls,
A voice the sluggish air that breaks,
Solemn amid the silence speaks.
“ Mistaken man, thou seek'st to know,
What known will but afflict with woe:
There thy Monimia shall abide,
With the pale bridegroom rest a bride,
The wan assistants there shall lay
In weeds of death her beateous clay.”

O words of woe, what do I hear?
What sounds invade a lover's ear?
Must then thy charms, my anxious care,
The fate of vulgar beauty share ?
Good heaven, retard (for thine the power)
The wheels of time that roll the hour.

Yet ah! why swells my breast with fears f
Why start the interdicted tears ?
Love, dost thou tempt again ? depart,
Thou devil, cast out from my heart.
Sad I forsook the feast, the ball,
The sunny bower and lofty hall,
And sought the dungeon of despair:
Yet thou overtakest me there.

CLX. SIR GILBERT ELLIOTT, 17**_1777.

AMYNTA.

My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ;
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.

Ι
Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do ?
Why left I Amynta ? why broke I my vow?
Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.
Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love!
Oh fool! to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well-founded, a passion so true!

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Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine;
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine:
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.

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OLXI. JANE ELLIOTT, 17**_17**.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.
I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,

Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,

The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae ;
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,

The bandsters are lyart, end runkled, and gray; At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming,

'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; But ilk ane sits dreary, lamenting her dearie The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede

away Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost,

The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,

Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

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CLXII. ISAAC BICKERSTAFF, 17**-17**

WISHES.

What are wishes ? wishes will not do;
One cannot cut one's cake and have it too,

CLXIII. SOAME JENYNS, 1704-1787.

DANCING. Hail, loveliest art! that canst all hearts ensnare And make the fairest still appear more fair! Beauty can little execution do, Unless she borrows half her charms from you; Few, like Pygmalion, doat on lifeless charms, Or care to clasp a statue in their arms; But breasts of flint must melt with fierce desire, When art and motion wake the sleeping fire. A Venus, drawn by great Apelles' hand, May for a while our wondering eyes command, But still, though formed with all the powers of art, The lifeless piece can never warm the heart; So a fair nymph, perhaps, may please the eye, Whilst all her beauteous limbs inactive lie, But, when her charms are in the dance displayed, Then every heart adores the lovely maid: This sets her beauty in the fairest light, And shows each grace in full perfection bright; Then, as she turns around, from every part, Like porcupines, she sends a piercing dart; In vain, alas ! the fond spectator tries To shun the pleasing dangers of her eyes, For, Parthian-like, she wounds as sure behind, With flowing curls and ivory neck reclined : Whether her steps the minuet's mazes trace, Or the slow Louvre's more majestic pace ; Whether the rigadoon employs her care, Or spritely jig displays the nimble fair, At every step new beauties we explore, And worship now what we admired before. So, when Æneas in the Tyrian grove Fair Venus met, the charming queen of love, The beauteous goddess, whilst unmoved she stood, Seemed some fair nymph, the guardian of the wood; But, when she moved, at once her heavenly mien And graceful step confess bright beauty's queen, New glories o'er her form each moment rise, And all the goddess open to his eyes.

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CLXIV. ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE, 1705-1760

ODE TO A TOBACCO-PIPE.
Little tube of mighty power
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire;
And thy snowy taper waist,
With my finger gently braced ;
And thy pretty swelling crest
With my little stopper prest,
And the sweetest bliss of blisses,
Breathing from thy balmy kisses,
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men,
Who, when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns,
When again the cricket's gay,
(Little cricket full of play,)
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed :
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice again,

Happiest he of happy men.
CLXV. HENRY BROOKE, 1706—1783

WISDOM OF GOD IN CREATION.
LIKE Nature's law, no eloquence persuades,
The mute harangue our every sense invades ;
The apparent precepts of the eternal will,
His

every work and every object fill:
Round with our eyes his revelation wheels,
Our
every

touch his demonstration feels.
And, O Supreme! when’er we cease to know
Thee, the sole source whence sense and science flow;
Then must all faculty, all knowledge fail,
And more than monster o'er the man prevail.

Not thus he gave our optics' vital glance,
Amid omniscient art, to search for chance,
Blind to the charms of Nature's beauteous frame:
Nor made our organ vocal to blaspheme:

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