Ah! Selima, cruel you prove,

Yet sure my hard lot you'll bewail,
I could not presume you would love,
Yet pity I hop'd would prevail,
And has she then, &c.

Since hatred alone I inspire,

Life henceforth is not worth my care,

Death now is my only desire,
I give myself up to despair.

And has she then, &c.

CLXXXIII.

WHERE ART THOU? ON THE MOON-BEAMS.

Where art thou? on the moon-beams? oh! no, no;

But in this hard world thou art seen no more :
Sweet Pity, o'er the wild waves let us go,

* This mad song is from the tale of the Soldier's Orphan, by Mrs, Castello. It is singular enough, says Dr. Percy, that the English have many more songs and ballads on the subject of madness than any other kingdom whatever; whether there be any truth in the insinuation, that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloominess hath

And in some flow'ry isle,

There will we rest all day;

And I will kiss my love's last tears away.

And we again shall smile,

Like infants in their sleep. Hark! 'twas the roar
Of the remorseless tempest, that whelms all,

All my fond hopes. Rock on, thou gloomy deep!
To the noise of thy tempest I call;

No, no, I will not weep,

Tho' they sound in my ear like despair.
Saw you a child with golden hair?
'Twas love, his eyes so sweetly shining,
All hearts to tenderness inclining,

Yet oh! beware,

How sweet was his voice, when hand link'd in hand,
We pass'd o'er scenes of fairy land;

But he left me, unpitied, to fate!

And o'er my sinking head the storm blew desolate.
Then he whom I lov'd-but I will not complain,

Tho' I never, oh never, shall see him again.

peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers. In the French, Italian, and other collections are found very few pieces on this subject.

CLXXXIV.

THE WAY TO BE HAPPY.

No glory I covet, no riches I want,

Ambition is nothing to me;

The one thing I beg of kind heaven to grant,
Is a mind independent and free.

With passion unruffled, untainted with pride,
By reason my life let me square:

The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied,
And the rest is but folly and care.

The blessings which providenee freely has lent,
I'll justly and gratefully prize,

While sweet meditation and cheerful content,
Shall make me both healthful and wise. ·

* This excellent song, which, for beauty and strength of sentiment, has few equals, we have extracted from a Collection of "Miscellaneous Poems, by several hands. Published by D. Lewis, London, 1730.

In the pleasures the great man's possessions display,
Unenvied, I'll challenge my part;

For every fair object my eyes can survey,
Contributes to gladden my heart.

How vainly, through infinite trouble and strife,
Do many their labours employ,

Since all that is truly delightful in life
Is what all, if they will, may enjoy.

CLXXXV.

ROSE OF THIS ENCHANTED VALE.

Rose of this enchanted vale,
Why so lone and mournful;
Fairer than the dawn-star pale,
Why so chill and scornful.
"I am not the rose" she said,
"Sleep his lid is steeping,

I am but a captive maid,

The rose's slumbers keeping.

Go! I fear that o'er his ear

Our heedless tones are creeping

Go! nor let one accent fall,

His charming dreams dispelling, Go! 'tis sacred stillness all

Thro' our mossy dwelling."

But, tho' free to roam at will,
Youthful hopes impelling,

I would be a captive still
In my rose's dwelling,
Now upon his arched brows,
In breathless bliss I ponder

Now the music of his vows
Makes my senses wander.
No charm to me were Liberty,

I'm of thraldom fonder.

Go! nor let one accent fall,

His charmed dreams dispelling

Go! 'tis sacred stillness all,
Thro' our mossy dwellings