WAR HYMN OF THE SOLDIERS OF MAHOMET. "I see, I see a black-eyed girl of Paradise, with a green handkerchief in her hand; she points to me, and says, "Come hither quickly, come kiss me, for I love thee." GIBBON'S ROM. HIST. ON the verge of war we stand, In the cause of heaven we war; That shall lead to just acclaim! Power above! one gracious nod To our fervent prayers bestow ! Plaudits to thy name we give, Glowing with celestial ire, Rush we furious to the field; Thousands from our wrath retire, Thousands bleed, and thousands yield: We all human force defy, We the favourites of the sky. Shall the brave of toils complain, Should some deadly wound be given, Blooming, black-eyed, smiling graces Power above! one gracious nod To our fervent prayers bestow ! God of armies, thundering God! Lead us, lead us to the foe: Plaudits to thy name we give, May thy name for ever live! FROM THE ITALIAN OF TASSO. AHI 'CHE LE VILLE &c. АH me! vile Interest every bosom stains, But reigns unbounded in the Peasant's mind; Thou bane of life, of human kind the shame; For thee, ne'er heave the sigh, ne'er drop the tear; What hated dust, th' unhallow'd spot contains ; But horrid winter stretch it's dread domain, And storms eternal desolate the plain. 'Twas Avarice first inverted Nature's plan, And chang'd the happiness design'd for man, Meanly corrupted Love's sublimer fires, And sully'd all the joys of soft desires : But mankind still with horror shall behold The maid who prostitutes her heart for gold. SONG*. IN the rough blast heaves the billow, Sombre tale and satire witty, * Sung in the comedy of Fashionable Friends. LAURA PENITENT. AGAIN the sun-shine gilds my day, Again my path is strew'd with flowers; Bright Hope for me points out the way, And Joy prepares his roseate bowers. What tho' no parents my cold urn With tears of pity shall bedew, Since holy hands my bones shall burn, And on my grave fresh flow'rets strew! What though no marble shall relate The griefs that brought me to the tomb; For me shall guardian angels wait, And Paradise itself shall bloom! How vain the joys which mortals prize, No sooner known than past away! Like colour'd clouds which paint the skies, And glow awhile with transient day! Titles and honours once were mine, |