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WOLCOT.

FIGHTING DOGS.

YOUNG men!—

I do presume that one of you in ten
Has kept a dog or two, and has remark'd,

That when you have been comfortably feeding,
The curs, without one atom of court breeding,
With wat❜ry jaws, have whin'd, and paw'd, and bark'd;
Show'd anxiousness about the mutton bone,
And, 'stead of your mouth, wish'd it in their own ;
And if you gave this bone to one or t’other,
Heav'ns what a snarling, quarrelling, and pother!
This, p'rhaps, has often touch'd you to the quick,
And made you teach good manners by a kick;
And if the tumult was beyond all bearing,
A little bit of sweet emphatic swearing,
An eloquence of wondrous use in wars,
Amongst sea captains and the brave jack tars.

Now tell me honestly,―pray don't you find
Somewhat in Christians, just of the same kind
That you experienc'd in the curs,
Causing your anger and demurs?
As, for example, when your mistress, Fame,
Wishing to celebrate a worthy name,

Takes up her trump to give the just applause;

How have you, puppy-like, paw'd, wish'd, and whin'd, How growl'd, and curs'd, and swore, and pin'd, And long'd to tear the trumpet from her jaws ! The dogs deserv'd their kicking, to be sure; But you! O fie, boys! go and sin no more.

TO JULIA.

FROM her whom ev'ry heart must love,
And every eye with wonder see;
My sad, my lifeless steps remove,—
Ah! were she fair alone for me!

In vain to solitudes I fly,

To bid her form from mem'ry part;
That form still dwells on mem'ry's eye,
And roots its beauties in my heart.

In ev'ry rose that decks the vales,

I see her cheek's pure blush appear;
And when the lark the morning hails,
'Tis Julia's voice salutes my ear.

Thus let me rove the world around,
Whatever beauty's charm can boast,
Or soothe the soul with sweetest sound,
Must paint the idol I have lost.

SONG.

THE wretch, O let me never know,
Who turns from pity's tearful eye;
Who melts not at the dirge of wo,
But bids the soul renew its sigh!

O say not with the voice of scorn,
"The lilies of thy neck are fled,
Thine eyes their vanish'd radiance mourn,
The roses of thy cheek are dead."

Too cruel youth, with tears I own
The rose and lily's sad decay;
And, sorrowing, wish for thee alone,
Their transient bloom a longer day.

Yet though thine eyes no longer trace
The healthful blush of former charms,
Remember that each luckless grace,
O Colin, faded in thy arms!

MADRIGAL.

WHEN Love and Truth together play'd, So cheerful was the shepherd's song! How happy, too, the rural maid!

How light the minutes wing'd along! But Love has left the sighing vale, And Truth no longer tells her tale.

Sly stealing, see, from scene to scene,
The watchful Jealousy appear;

And pale Distrust with troubled mien,

The rolling eye, and list'ning ear!
For Love has left the sighing vale,
And Truth no longer tells her tale.

Ah! shall we see no more the hour
That wafted rapture on its wing!
With murmurs shall the riv'let pour,

That prattled from its crystal spring?
Yes, yes, while Love forsakes the vale,
And Truth no longer tells her tale.

A PASTORAL SONG.

FAREWELL, O farewell to the day,
That smiling with happiness flew !
Ye verdures and blushes of May,
songs of the linnet, adieu!

Ye

In tears from the vale I depart,

In anguish I move from the fair; For what are those scenes to the heart Which Fortune has doom'd to despair?

Love frowns, and how dark is the hour!
Of rapture, departed the breath!
So gloomy the grove and the bow'r,
I tread the pale valley of death.

With envy I wander forlorn,

At the breeze which her beauty has fann'd ; And I envy the bird on the thorn,

Who sits watching the crumbs from her hand.

I envy the lark o'er her cot,

Who calls her from slumber, so blest;
Nay, I envy the nightingale's note,
The Siren who sings her to rest.

On her hamlet once more let me dwell,-
One ook! (the last comfort!) be mine;
O pleasure, and Delia, farewell!
Now, sorrow, I ever am thine.

SONG.

O NYMPH! of Fortune's smiles beware,
Nor heed the Siren's flattering tongue;
She lures thee to the haunts of care,
Where sorrow pours a ceaseless song.

Ah! what are all her piles of gold?
Can those the host of care control?
The splendour which thine eyes behold,
Is not the sunshine of the soul.

To love alone thy homage pay,

The queen of ev'ry true delight; Her smiles with joy shall gild thy day, And bless the visions of the night.

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