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SONG.
SOFT ideas love inspiring, | |
| Every placid joy unite; | |
| Every anxious thought retiring, | |
| Fill my bosom with delight. | |
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| Soft ideas, gently flowing, | 5 |
| On your tide, so calm and still; | |
| Bear me where sweet zeyphrs blowing, | |
| Wave the pines on Borden’s Hill. | |
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| Where the breezes odors bringing, | |
| Fill the grove with murmuring sound; | 10 |
| Where shrill notes of birds, sweet singing, | |
| Echo to the hills around. | |
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| To the pleasing gloom convey me, | |
| Let my Delia too be there; | |
| On her gentle bosom lay me, | 15 |
| On her bosom soft and fair. | |
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| Whilst I there, with rapture burning, | |
| All my joy in her express, | |
| Let her, love for love returning, | |
| Me with fond caresses bless. | 20 |
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| On his little wings descending, | |
| Bring the god of soft delight: | |
| Hymen too, with torch attending, | |
| Must our hands and hearts unite. | |
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| She the source of all my pleasure | 25 |
| Shall my breast with transport fill; | |
| Delia is my soul’s best treasure, | |
| Delia, pride of Borden’s Hill. | |
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SONG.
COME, fair Rosina, come away, | |
| Long since stern winter’s storms have ceased! | 30 |
| See! Nature, in her best array, | |
| Invites us to her rural feast: | |
| The season shall her treasure spread, | |
| Her mellow fruits and harvests brown, | |
| Her flowers their richest odors shed, | 35 |
| And every breeze pour fragrance down. | |
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| At noon we ’ll seek the wild wood’s shade, | |
| And o’er the pathless verdure rove; | |
| Or, near a mossy fountain laid, | |
| Attend the music of the grove. | 40 |
| At eve, the sloping mead invites | |
| ’Midst lowing herds and flocks to stray; | |
| Each hour shall furnish new delights, | |
| And love and joy shall crown the day. | |
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SONG.
O’ER the hills far away, at the birth of the morn, | 45 |
| I hear the full tone of the sweet sounding horn; | |
| The sportsmen with shoutings all hail the new day, | |
| And swift run the hounds o’er the hills far away. | |
| Across the deep valley their course they pursue, | |
| And rush through the thickets yet silver’d with dew; | 50 |
| Nor hedges nor ditches their speed can delay— | |
| Still sounds the sweet horn o’er the hills far away. | |
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SONG.
MY generous heart disdains | |
| The slave of love to be, | |
| I scorn his servile chains, | 55 |
| And boast my liberty. | |
| This whining | |
| And pining | |
| And wasting with care, | |
| Are not to my taste, be she ever so fair. | 60 |
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| Shall a girl’s capricious frown | |
| Sink my noble spirits down? | |
| Shall a face of white and red | |
| Make me droop my silly head? | |
| Shall I set me down and sigh | 65 |
| For an eyebrow or an eye? | |
| For a braided lock of hair, | |
| Curse my fortune and despair? | |
| My generous heart disdains, &c. | |
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| Still uncertain is tomorrow, | 70 |
| Not quite certain is today— | |
| Shall I waste my time in sorrow? | |
| Shall I languish life away? | |
| All because a cruel maid | |
| Hath not love with love repaid. | 75 |
| My generous heart disdains, &c. | |
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