What prompts me, then, averse to fly R. A. DAVENPORT. SONG. I AM wearing away like the snow in the sun, Though longing to weep, in his presence I'll smile, health; His fears for my peace by my song I'll beguile, Nor venture to gaze on his eyes but by stealth. For conscious I am, by my glance is express'd The passion that faithful as hopeless will be, And he, whom, alas! I can ne'er render bless'd, Shall never, no never, know sorrow through me. MRS. OPIE. * Bears, like the Turk, no rival near his throne. Pope. SONG. To thy cliffs, rocky Seaton, adieu! And adieu to the roar of thy seas! And adieu to the girl whose insensible heart Is as hard and as sullen as these! Forget the fond echoes you heard! Forget my fond hope and my strain! My strain is neglected, and dead is my hope :But you never shall hear me complainTo your cliffs, rocky Seaton, adieu! REV. W. CROWE. SONG. IN THE STYLE OF MR. CROWE'S SONG, SEATON FROM thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly, Her smile to that scene could impart A charm that might rival the bloom of the vale ;— But away thou fond dream of my heart! To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu! Now the blasts of the Winter come on, Sincere were the sighs it repress'd, But they rose in the days that are flown!— To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu! Lo! the wings of the seafowl are spread, Like them, to the home of my youth, Like them, to its shades I retire; Receive me, and shield my vex'd spirit, ye groves, From the storms of insulted desire! From thy waves, rocky Lannow, I fly! MISS SEWARD. BALLAD. HAST thou escaped the cannon's ire Loud thundering o'er the troubled main? Hast thou escaped the fever's fire That burns so fierce on India's plain? Then, William, then I can resign, With scarce one sigh, the blooming grace That face grows wan by sultry clime, Nor soil nor time makes that look old, Than youth or beauty, fame or gold. MISS SEWARD. SONG. Now Spring wakes the Maymorn, the sweetest of hours [flowers; Calls the lark to the sunbeam, the bee to the Calls youth, love, and beauty to hail the new day, And twine all their garlands in honour of May; But think not, amid the gay pleasure they bring, That moments so jocund will pause on their wing! Obey, my fair Laura, the summons that breathes In the scent of the flowers, in the hue of the leaves; In the hymn of the woodlands, for love is the lay, And fragrance and lustre are types of his sway; More sweet are his accents, more rosy his spring, And O! not less rapid the flight of his wing! MISS SEWARD. SONG. TELL me, what can mean this riot Ever heaving with a sigh? If such tokens don't discover Then, O tell me, what am I? But, alas! poor thoughtless creature! And to tell him, what am I. R. FENTON. SONG. THOUGH in the festive circle gay, The bloom of youth and smile of pleasure; Ah! think not I am free from care! D. CAREY. MARY'S EVENING SIGH. WITH lovely pearl the western sky And yon light golden clouds that fly The deepening tints, the arch of light, And sigh, and bless the charming sight O hill! that shadest the valley here, My Edward's form; he looks to me Descend, my love, the hour is come; The sun hath left my quiet home, |