SONG.

SPIRIT here that reignest!

Spirit here that painest!

Spirit here that burnest!

Spirit here that mournest!
Spirit! I bow

My forehead low,

Enshaded with thy pinions!
Spirit! I look,

All passion-struck,

Into thy pale dominions!

Spirit here that laughest!

Spirit here that quaffest!

Spirit here that dancest!

Noble soul that prancest!
Spirit! with thee

I join in the glee,

While nudging the elbow of Momus !

Spirit! I flush

With a Bacchanal blush,

Just fresh from the banquet of Comus!

FAERY SONG.

AH! woe is me! poor silver-wing!
That I must chaunt thy lady's dirge,
And death to this fair haunt of spring,
Of melody, and streams of flowery verge,—
Poor silver-wing! ah! woe is me!

That I must see

These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall!
Go, pretty page! and in her ear
Whisper that the hour is near!
Softly tell her not to fear

Such calm favonian burial!

Go, pretty page! and soothly tell,— The blossoms hang by a melting spell, And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice Upon her closed eyes,

That now in vain are weeping their last tears,

At sweet life leaving, and these arbours green,Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres,Alas! poor Queen!

EXTRACTS FROM AN OPERA.

1818.

O! WERE I one of the Olympian twelve,
Their godships should pass this into a law,—
That when a man doth set himself in toil
After some beauty veiled far away,

Each step he took should make his lady's hand
More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more fair;
And for each briar-berry he might eat,

A kiss should bud upon the tree of love,
And pulp and ripen richer every hour,
To melt away upon the traveller's lips.

When wedding fiddles are a-playing,

Huzza for folly O!

And when maidens go a-Maying,

Huzza, &c.

When a milk-pail is upset,

Huzza, &c.

And the clothes left in the wet,

Huzza, &c.

When the barrel 's set abroach,

Huzza, &c.

When Kate Eyebrow keeps a coach,

Huzza, &c.

When the pig is over-roasted,

Huzza, &c.

And the cheese is over-toasted,

Huzza, &c.

O, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts!
Perhaps her voice is not a nightingale's,
Perhaps her teeth are not the fairest pearl ;
Her eye-lashes may be, for aught I know,
Not longer than the May-fly's small fan-horns;
There may not be one dimple on her hand;
And freckles many; ah! a careless nurse,
In haste to teach the little thing to walk,
May have crumpt up a pair of Dian's legs,
And warpt the ivory of a Juno's neck.

The stranger lighted from his steed,

And ere he spake a word,
He seized my lady's lily hand,

And kiss'd it all unheard.

II.

The stranger walk'd into the hall,
And ere he spake a word,

He kiss'd my lady's cherry lips,

And kiss'd 'em all unheard.

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