Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Charms of melody, or, Siren medley

THE CHARMS OF MELODY*
155
Tom Clueline.
THE wind was liufh'd, the fleecy wave.
Scarcely the veffel's fides could lave,
When in the mizen-top, his fland,
I Tom Clueline taking, fpied the land :
Oh I what reward for all his toil !
Once more he views his native foil ;
Once more he thanl;s indulgent fate,
That brings him to his bonny Kate.
Soft as the fighs of zephyr flow.
Tender and plaintive as her woe,
Serene was the attentive eve.
That heard Tom's bonny Kitty grieve -.
"Oh! what avails" cried fhe "my pain,
" He's fvvallov'd in the greedy main ; '
" Ah ! never fhall I welcome home,
" With tender joy, my honell Tom."
Now high upon the faithful fiiroud,
The land awhile that fecm'd a cloud,
While objects from the mift arife,
A ieaft prcfents Tom's longing eyes •.
A ribbon near his heart which lay,
Now fee him on his hat dilplay
The given fign, to flievv that fate
Had brought him to his bonny Kate.
Near to a clifl^ whofe heights command
A profpedt of the ihelly ftrand,
While Kitty fate and-fortune blamed.
Sudden with rapture fhe exclaimed^
" But fee, Oh I heaven, a fhip in view,.
" Aly Tom appears among the crew ;
" The pledge he fwore to bring fafe home,
" Streams on his hat — 'tis honeft Tom."
What now remains were eafy told,
Tom comes — his pockets lin'd with gold ;
■Now rich enough no more to roam,
To ferve his king— he flays at home :
Kecounts each toil, and fhews each fear.
While Kitty and her conftant tar
With rev'rence teach, to blefs their fates.
Young honefl Toms and bonny Kates.
New Friend and Pitcher.
IN fortune's arms this rich are poor,
Uneaiy, fl:riving ftill to hitch her;
XJive me but health, I aflc no more,
With my Iweet girl, my friend and pitcher.
A friend fo rare — a girl fo fair.
With fuch, what mortal can be richer ?
Give me but thefe, a fig for care,
With my fweet girl, my friend and pitcher.
Let fortune's infefts fly my door.
And in her fun-fl:iine i'portive nitch her;
May thofe be rich who think mc poor,
i' With my fweet girl, a fiitud and pitcher.
,A friend fo rare.,^c.
The Heart which Love has wounded.
THE heart which love has wounded,
By fear and death confounded,
One only thought alarms;
It mocks the raging ocesn,
The ftormy wind's commotion,
Or din of hoftile arms. '
It's wonted cares are banifh'd,
It's early terrors vanifh'd,
It pants with fear unknown;
Throbs with too fierce pulfaiion,
To warm the dull vibration,
That trembles with it! own.
Love and Defpair.
NO more the feftive train I'll join,
Adieu, ye rural fports, adieu !
For what, alas ! have griefs like mine.
With paftimes or delights to do ?
Let hearts at eafe fuch pleafures prove ;
But I am all defpair and love.
Ah; well-a-day I how chatig'd am I !
When late I feiz'd the rural reed.
So foft my ftrains, the herds hard by.
Stood gazing, and forgot to feed:
• But now my flrains no longer move,
They're difcord all, defpair and love.
Behold around my Ilraggling flieep.
The faireft once upon the lea ;
No fwain to guide, no dog to keep,
Unihorn they ftray, nor mark'd by me :
The ihepherds mourn to fee them rove.
They afi; the caufe, I anfwer love.
Neglefted love firft taught my eyes
With tears of anguifh to o'erflow ;
'Tis that which fiU'd my breaft with fighs,
And tun'd my pipe to notes of woe :
Love has occafion'd all my fmart,
-Difpers'd my flock, and broke ray heart. . ,, „, ^, .
-. . — — . — l-r^
Sympathy.
FOR tendernefs faihlon'd in life's early day,
A parent's foft forrows to mine led the way;
The leflon of pity was caught from her eye,
And e'er words were my own, I fpoke in a figh.
The nightingale plunder'd the mate-wldow'd dove,'
The warbled complaint of the fuffering grove,
To youth as it ripen'd gave fentim.ent new.
The objefl Hill changing, the fympathy true.
Soft embers of palfion ftill refl in a glow — •
A warmth of more pain may this breaft never know:
Or, if too indulgent the bleffing I claim,
Let the fparkdrop from reafon that wakens the flame
The Shepherd's Wifli
LET others praife the lofty maid,
Or paint the titled fair ;
Give me, ye gods ! the rural lafs.
Who tends her fleecy care ;
Whofe auburn treffes fweetly flow
Around her lovely waift ;
Whofe cheeks, like blufltiiiig rofe-buds glow,
In fome lone defan plac'd;
Whofe lips, untaught in falfehood's wiles,
Difdain not to impart.
With artlefs modefty and truth,
The language of the heart;
Whofe native plains her wiflies bound ;
Whofe flock is all her ftore:
Give me, ye gods ! a nymph like this—
My foul defires no more.
How fweet to Love.
HOW fweet a torment 'tis to love !
And ah ! how pleafant is the pain !
I would not, if I could, remove,
Anil now put off the am'rous chain.
Tho' Chloris' eyes do give me laws.
And me of liberty beguile,_
I, like a martyr, love my caufe,
And on u;v fait tormca'.or iinile !