And cruel is the wintry wind that chills my

heart with cold, But crueller than all, the lad that left my

love for gold !

Hush, hush my lovely baby, and warm

thee in my breast; Ah little thinks thy father how sadly we're

distreft ; For cruel as he is, did he know but how we

fare, He'd shield us in his arms from this bitter

piercing air,

Cold, cold my dearest jewel! thy little life is

gone : Oh let my tcars revive thee, fo warm that

trickle down : My tears that guth so warm, oh they freeze

before they fall : th wretched, wretched mother! thou’rt

now beroft of all."


Then down she funk despairing upon the

drifted snow, And wrung with killing anguish, lamented

loud her woe; She kiss’d her baby's pale lips, and laid it by

her side; Then cast her eyes to heaven, then bow'd her head, and died.


The Pasions.

[From the inimitable unimitated manner in

which Mr. Palmer recites and acts the Passions, together with the excellence of the Ode, 'twas supposed the insertion would be highly agreeable, especially to those who have had the satisfaction in seeing that truly great performer.]

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was

young, While yet in early Grecce she sung,


[ocr errors]

The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Poffest beyond the Mule's painting ;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.
'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir’d,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound.
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd he knew not why,

Evin at the found himself had made.

Next Anger rushid, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own’d his secret stings,
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings.


With woeful measures wan Despair

Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd, A folemn, ftrange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes

so fair, What was thy delighted measure ?

Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail !

Still would her touch the scene prolong, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She callid on Echc still thro' all the song ; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every

close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her

golden hair. And longer had the fung,-but, with a


Revenge impatient rose, He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thun

der down, And with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took,


And blew a blast fo loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ;

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat : And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause

Dejected Pity at his fide,

Her foul-fubduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd

bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were

fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state Of differing themes the veering song was

mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving

call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir’d,
Pale Melancholy fat retir'd,
And from her wild fequefterd seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,


« VorigeDoorgaan »