I strove against thee, Lord, I know, O pleasures past, what are ye now For pleasure I have given my soul; Yet Jesus, Jesus! there I'll cling, MELODY. Inserted in a Collection of selected and original Songs, published by the Rev. J. Plumptre, of Clare Hall, Cambridge. I. YES, once more that dying strain, Anna touch thy lute for me; II. While the Virtues thus inweave III. Thus when life hath stolen away, SONG.-BY WALLER. A lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to Henry, and when he returned them to her, she discovered an additional stanza written by him at the bottom of the song here copied. GO, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time and me, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied; In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share, That are so wonderous sweet and fair. [Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; That goodness Time's rude hand defies, H. K. WHITE. "I AM PLEAS'D, AND YET I'M SAD." L WHEN twilight steals along the ground, One, two, three, four, and five; I at my study window sit, And wrapt in many a musing fit, To bliss am all alive. II. But though impressions calm and sweet, The tear-drop stands in either eye, I am pleas'd, and yet I'm sad. III. The silvery rack that flies away, Does that disturb my breast? Or pleasure's fading vest? IV. Is it that here I must not stop, V. Then is it that yon steeple there, When thou no more can'st hear? VI. Then whence it is I cannot tell, That holds me when I am glad; And so the tear-drop fills my eye, When yet in truth I know not why, Or wherefore I am sad. |