Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.

By Songs

Francis Hopkinson (1737–1791)

SONG.

SOFT ideas love inspiring,

Every placid joy unite;

Every anxious thought retiring,

Fill my bosom with delight.

Soft ideas, gently flowing,

On your tide, so calm and still;

Bear me where sweet zeyphrs blowing,

Wave the pines on Borden’s Hill.

Where the breezes odors bringing,

Fill the grove with murmuring sound;

Where shrill notes of birds, sweet singing,

Echo to the hills around.

To the pleasing gloom convey me,

Let my Delia too be there;

On her gentle bosom lay me,

On her bosom soft and fair.

Whilst I there, with rapture burning,

All my joy in her express,

Let her, love for love returning,

Me with fond caresses bless.

On his little wings descending,

Bring the god of soft delight:

Hymen too, with torch attending,

Must our hands and hearts unite.

She the source of all my pleasure

Shall my breast with transport fill;

Delia is my soul’s best treasure,

Delia, pride of Borden’s Hill.

SONG.

COME, fair Rosina, come away,

Long since stern winter’s storms have ceased!

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,

And every breeze pour fragrance down.

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.

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.

SONG.

O’ER the hills far away, at the birth of the morn,

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;

Nor hedges nor ditches their speed can delay—

Still sounds the sweet horn o’er the hills far away.

SONG.

MY generous heart disdains

The slave of love to be,

I scorn his servile chains,

And boast my liberty.

This whining

And pining

And wasting with care,

Are not to my taste, be she ever so fair.

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

For an eyebrow or an eye?

For a braided lock of hair,

Curse my fortune and despair?

My generous heart disdains, &c.

Still uncertain is tomorrow,

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.

My generous heart disdains, &c.

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