English

Stay, Bachelor ! if you have wit!
A wonder to behold!
Husband and Wife , in one dark pit,
Lye close, and never scold !

Tread softly though, — for fear she wakes ;
Hark! she begins , already?
You've hurt my head — my shoulder akes :
These sots can ne'er move steady.

Ah, friend , with happy freedom blest!
See! how my hope's miscarried!
Not death itself , can give you rest ,

SONG IN DIALOGUE .

THYRSIS .

Delia! how long must I despair,
And tax you with disdain,
Still to my tender love severe,
Untouch'd when I complain?

DEL . When men of equal merit love us,
And do with equal ardour sue,
Thyrsis! you know but one must move us.
Can I be your's and Strephon's too?

My eyes view both with mighty pleasure,
Impartial to your high desert;
To both alike esteem I measure;

Oh! — cry'd Arsenia , long, in Wedlock blest ,
Her head reclining, on her husband's breast ,
Should death divide thee, from thy doating wife ,
What comfort could be found in widow'd life ?
How the thought shakes me! — Heaven my Strephon save,
Or, give the lost Arsenia half his grave !

Jove heard the lovely mourner and approv'd :
" And should not wives , like this , said he, be lov'd ?
" Take the soft forrower at her word, and try ,
" How deeply rooted W OMAN'S vows can lie? "

A tinker I am,
My name's Natty Sam,
From morn to night I trudge it;
So low is my fate,
My personal estate
Lies all within this budget.

Work for the tinker ho, good wives,
For they are lads of mettle —
'Twere well if you could mend your lives,
As I can mend a kettle.

They, who, in ships , the seas vast depths descend,
And, o'er the wat'ry world , their passage bend;
They (more than all ) their G OD'S great works discern,
And midst th' unfathom'd deep his wonders learn.
There, from smooth calms , on sudden storms they rise,
Hang on the horrid surge , and skim the skies !
Now, high as heaven , they climb their dreadful way,
Now, sink in gulphy slants , and lose the day !
Giddy, they reel , to shoot the frightful steep ,
And their souls melt , amid the sounding sweep !

Thou darest not love me!—thou canst only see
The great gulf set between us. Hadst thou love ,
'T would bear thee o'er it on a wing of fire!
Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup,
The draught thou 'st prayed for with divinest thirst,
For fear a poison in the chalice lurks?
Wilt thou be barred from thy soul's heritage,
The power, the rapture, and the crown of life,
By the poor guard of danger set about it?
I tell thee that the richest flowers of heaven
Bloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast marked

We have struggled up the hill-side,
We stand upon its brow, —
O, lovely as a dream of heaven,
The scene before us now!

There singeth past the woodlands,
Where the listening aspens quiver,
There shineth through the meadows,
The beautiful, bright river.

And, farther off, old Ocean
Is lying at his rest,
With the warm and gentle sunlight
Asleep upon his breast.

But low down in the village
Is a cottage, white and small,
And to me that cottage seemeth
More glorious than all!

In Paris, as in London,
Vice thrives, and virtue's undone;
Errors, passions, want of truth,
Folly, in age as well as youth,
Are things by no means rare:

But honest usurers, friends sincere,
And judges with their conscience clear,
C'est qu'on ne voit guere.

II.

In Paris all things vary,
Sixteen and sixty marry;
Men presuming on their purse,
Heirs with their estates at nusie,
Are things by no means rare:

The pulse of the year beat low, throbbed low,
The winds went drearily sighing;
For wrapped in their shrouds of snow, white snow,
The last of fall flowers were lying.

I heard the north storm come down, come down,
From its farthest icy dwelling,
Through leafless forests all brown, all brown,
The doom of the old year knelling.

But when the light of thy smile, sweet smile,
Was shed on the lone chance-comer,
He dreamed a fair dream awhile, awhile,
Of beauty and love and summer.

When the long shadows on my path are lying,
Will those I love be gathered at my side;
Clustered around my couch of pain, and trying
To light the dark way, trod without a guide?

Shall it be mine, beyond the tossing billow,
Neath foreign skies, to feel the approach of death,
Will stranger hands smooth down my dying pillow,
And watch with kindly heart my failing breath?

Or shall, perchance, the little stars be shining
On some lone spot, where, far from home and friends,
The way-worn pilgrim on the turf reclining,