SONG: IF I FORGET THEE

I F I forget thee! How shall I forget thee?
Sword of the mighty! Prince and Lord of War!
Captive I bind me
To the spears that blind me,
Rage in my heart and love for evermore.

If I forget thee! How shall I forget thee?
Man the destroyer! Life that made mine move!
They that come after
Let them earn my laughter,

I

J ESUS , how precious is thy Name!
The great J EHOVAH'S Darling, Thou!
O let me catch th' immortal Flame,
With which Angelic Bosoms glow!
Since Angels love Thee, I would love,
And imitate the Blest above.

II

My Prophet Thou, my heav'nly Guide,
Thy sweet Instructions I will hear,
The Words, that from thy Lips proceed,
O how divinely sweet they are!
Thee, my great Prophet , I would love,
And imitate the Blest above.

III

My great High-Priest , whose precious Blood
Did once atone upon the Cross,

I.

Where now are all my flatt'ring dreams of joy?
Monimia, give my soul her wonted rest; —
Since first thy beauty fix'd my roving eye,
Heart-gnawing cares corrode my pensive breast!

II.

Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call,
With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour;
Lead beauty thro' the mazes of the ball,
Or press her wanton in love's roseate bow'r.

III.

For me, no more I'll range th' empurpled mead,
Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around;
Nor wander thro' the woodbine's fragrant shade,

" And God saw the light that it was good. "

I heard a tale long, long ago,
Where I had gone apart to pray
By Shasta's pyramid of snow,
That touches me unto this day.
I know the fashion is to say
An Arab tale, an Orient lay;
But when the grocer rings my gold
On counter, flung from greasy hold,
He cares not from Acadian vale
It comes, or savage mountain chine; —
But this the Shastan tale:

Once in the olden, golden days,
When men and beasts companioned, when

I SIGH not, while thou art my soul! Fair one, thou art to me
A golden cup, with water filled of immortality.
I sit me down, that over me may fall thy shadow, sweet;
Thou art a gold-embroidered tent to shield me from the heat.
First hear my fault, and, if thou wilt, then slay this erring man;
Thou hast all power; to me thou art the Sultan and the Khan.

Thy waist is like a cypress-tree, sugar thy tongue, in sooth;
Thy lip is candy, and thy skin like Frankish satin smooth.
Thy teeth are pearls and diamonds, the gates of dulcet tones;

Thou , who within these hallow'd walls shalt move,
Know that this stone was fix'd by gen'rous love;
A husband's fondest hopes beneath it rest,
A wife, in whom fair virtue stood confest;
In whom sweet love, and mild compassion join'd,
With each soft grace that decks the female mind;
A wife who never gave her husband pain,
But when pale death had rank'd her with the slain!
What soothing joys her goodness did impart,
Ah! read them in her partner's broken heart!
Think, in his grief, thou seest her virtues rise,

M Y God ! the Wretch that does not love Thy Name
To Life and Being forfeits all his Claim,
And may he fink to nothing whence he came.
Or let the Yawn of the dire Mouth of Hell,
Receive him with his Fellow-Fiends to dwell.

Oh! if my Heart does not to Thee aspire,
If ought with equal Fervour I desire,
I'm self-condemn'd, and doom myself to Fire.
Let not my guilty Breath profane Thy Air,
Nor groaning Earth the monstrous Burden bear.
Let Clouds with Vengeance big, burst o'er my Head,

On Approach of Winter.

Come , my Silvia , come away;
Youth and Beauty will not stay;
Let's enjoy the present now.
Heark, tempestuous Winter's Roar,
How it blusters at the Door,
Charg'd with Frosts, and Storms, and Snow.

Seated near the crackling Fire,
Let's indulge our fond Desire,
Careless of rough Borea 's Blast:
Let us teach the blooming Youth,
What Joys attend on Love and Truth;
How much they please, how long they last.

The am'rous Warblers of the Grove,

Oh! How severe is our poor Poets Fate!
Who in this barren Trade begins so late.
True Wit' s no longer currant, 'tis cry'd down ,
And all your half-wits into Knavery grown,
Those who once lov'd the Stage, are now in years,
And leave good Poets for dull Pamphleteers;
Nay, for the worst of Rascals , Libellers.
In none of these will the young Sparks delight,
They never read, and scorn all those that write.
They only come the Boxes to survey,
Laugh, roar, and bawl, but never hear the Play
In Monkey's tricks they pass the time away,

An Imitation of Anacreon.

Oft I string the Lydian Lyre,
Oft in noble Strains aspire
To sing the Glories of that Face,
Each secret Charm, each nameless Grace;
But still the disobedient Strings do move
In softest Notes, and murmur nought but Love.

Oft with witty quaint Conceit,
I vainly strive to celebrate
That, which no Colours can reveal
Which we only see, and only feel:
But still the disobedient Strings do move
In softest Notes, and murmur nought but Love.

Farewel, wild impetuous Ode;