A BACCHANALIAN RANT.

HARRY CAREY.

Bacchus must now his power resign,

I am the only god of wine;

It is not fit the wretch should be
In competition set with me,

Who can drink ten times more than he.

Make a new world, ye powers divine!
Stock'd with nothing else but wine!
Let wine its only product be,
Let wine be earth, and air, and sea,
And let that wine be all for me.

Let other mortals vainly wear
A tedious life in anxious care,

Let the ambitious toil and think,

Let states and empires swim or sink—
My whole ambition is to drink.

HOW HARDLY I CONCEALED MY TEARS?

ANNE, MARCHIONESS OF WHARTON.

How hardly I conceal'd my tears?
How oft did I complain?
When, many tedious days, my fears
Told me I lov'd in vain.

But now my joys as wild are grown,
And hard to be conceal'd;
Sorrow may make a silent moan,
But joy will be reveal'd.

I tell it to the bleating flocks,
To every stream and tree,

And bless the hollow murmuring rocks
For echoing back to me.

Thus you may see with how much joy,
We want, we wish, believe;
"Tis hard such passion to destroy,
But easy to deceive.

RIVALS, A LOVER'S PLAGUE.

WILLIAM WALSH.

Of all the torments, all the cares,
With which our lives are curst;
Of all the plagues a lover bears,
Sure rivals are the worst!
By partners in each other kind,
Afflictions easier grow;
In love alone we hate to find,
Companions of our woe.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you see
Are lab'ring in my breast;
I beg not you would favour me,
Would you but slight the rest!

How great soe'er your rigours are,
With them alone I'll cope;
I can endure my own despair,
But not another's hope.

{This song is by the Walsh so often mentioned in the correspon. dence of Pope.]

AMYNTA'S LIPS.

As near a fountain's cooling side,

The fair Amynta lay,

Her looks increas'd the summer's pride-
Her eyes the face of day.

The roses round blush'd deeper red-
To see themselves outdone,

Each lily droop'd its little head-
And mourn'd its beauty gone.

Unto this fountain's soft retreat-
A bee enamour'd flew-
To steal Amynta's every sweet
And rifle balmy dew.

Drawn by the fragrance of her breath,

Her wanton lips he wooed,
O'ercome with bliss cold icy death,

The happy rogue pursued.

Ah! little bee how blest thy fate

Thy lot was joy divine,

E'en Kings would quit their royal state-
To meet a death like thine.

[Our old collections of songs contain many versions of the above, in some the lady is called Selinda. The Editor thinks the present copy of the song is most preferable.]

WE ALL TO BEAUTY BOW.

We all to conquering beauty bow,
Its pleasing power admire;
But I ne'er knew a face till now
That could like yours inspire:
Now I may say I met with one
Amazes all mankind;

And, like men gazing on the sun,
With too much light am blind.

Soft, as the tender moving sighs,
When longing lovers meet,
Like the divining prophets, wise;
Like new-blown roses, sweet;
Modest, yet gay; reserv'd, yet free;
Each happy night a bride;
A mien like awful majesty,
And yet no spark of pride.

The patriarch to win a wife,
Chaste, beautiful, and young,

Serv'd fourteen years a painful life,
And never thought it long:

Ah! were you to reward such care,
And life so long would stay,
Not fourteen, but four hundred years,
Would seem but as one day.

AN EXCUSE FOR DRINKING.

Upbraid me not, capricious fair,
With drinking to excess;

I should not want to drown despair,
Were your indifference less.

Love me, my dear, and you shall find,
When this excuse is gone,

That all my bliss, when Chloe's kind,
Is fixed on her alone.

The god of wine the victory

To beauty yields with joy;

For Bacchus only drinks like me,
When Ariadne's coy.

TO THE BROOK.

To the brook and the willow that heard him complain, Poor Colin went weeping and told them his pain; Sweet stream, he cried, sadly I'll teach thee to flow, And thy waters shall mournfully run with my woe.