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,
Pouring forth our fervent prayer;
Pois'd each banner, brac'd each hand,
Death or conquest all our care.
Conscious of superior might,
Panting, glowing for the fight.

In the cause of heaven we war;
Heaven beholds with favouring eye;
Dangers, carnage, death we dare;
Lift the Koran to the sky!

That shall lead to just acclaim!
That the rallying post of fame!

Power above! one gracious nod

To our fervent prayers bestow !
God of armies, thundering God!
Thou shalt lead us to the foe!

Plaudits to thy name we give,
May thy name for ever live!

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,
Toils the radiant powers accord ?
Sweet are dangers, sweet is pain,
Suffer'd for our heart's reward:
Bashful maids our suit approve,
Heightening all the zest of love.

Should some deadly wound be given,
Fall we; but again to rise!
Mounting as a spear to Heaven,
Holy warriors claim the skies:
Every bliss awaits us there,
Seas of pleasure drown our care!

Blooming, black-eyed, smiling graces
All their blissful charms bestow;
Each her amorous lord embraces,
Swooning on her breast of snow:
Rapture every sense engages,
Rapture of a thousand ages!

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,
From mighty Monarchs down to simple Swains;
No more alas! to palaces confin'd,

But reigns unbounded in the Peasant's mind;
Be then this age pronounc'd the age of gold,
Since even Happiness for pelf is sold:
But thou, ignoble wretch, who first essay'd
To charm by sordid arts the venal maid;
Taught the young breast on hopes of gain to rove,
(Fair Faith neglected, and unspotted Love)
Eternal curses blast thy hated name,

Thou bane of life, of human kind the shame;
For thee no friend a monument shall rear;

For thee, ne'er heave the sigh, ne'er drop the tear;
To soothe thy ghost, ne'er shall the lyre be strung;
Ne'er shall thy name disgrace the Poet's song:
When to the turf where thy pale reliques lye,
Some neighbouring swain shall guide the wand'ring eye,
Inform the traveller what vile remains,

What hated dust, th' unhallow'd spot contains ;
No honours to thy memory shall he pay,
No peaceful requiem for the manes say.
Nipt by the blasts of pestilential air,
Ne'er shall the rural verdure flourish there,

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,
In the light air waves the willow;
Every thing of moving kind.
Varies with the veering wind;
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

Sombre tale and satire witty,
Sprightly glee and doleful ditty,
Measur'd sighs and roundelay,
Welcome all, but do not stay;
For what have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

* 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,
And blooming health and youthful grace:
Now on my cheek the roses pine,
Now grief has blanch'd my faded face.