« ПретходнаНастави »
JOHN TROT was desired by two witty peers,
To tell them the reason why asses had ears. Ant please you,' quoth John, 'I'm not given to
letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces, As I hope to be sav'd, without thinking on asses.'
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What art can wash her guilt away?
To bide her shame from every eye,
WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
SIR, I SEND yon a small production of the late Dr.
Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle in his admirable comedy of 'She Stoops to Conquer,' but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not. sing. He sung it bimself, in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called The Humours of Balamagairy,' to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words: but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, abont a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidding him adiea for that season, little apprehending that it was a last farewell.
I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affectionate
I am, Sir,
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE CO
MEDY OF 'SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.'
AH mel when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me, He, fond youth, that could carry me, Offers to love, but means to deceive me. But I will rally and combat the ruiner. Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover, She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.
AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart: Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.
O Wolfe to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conqnest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,
While thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead;
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
THIS tomb inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way! Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid; And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow, The transitory breath of fame below : More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, While converts thank their poet in the skies.