And when at last thy love fhall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou reprefs each ftruggling figh,
And cheer with fmiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay
Strew flowers and drop the tender tear;
Nor then regret thofe fcenes fo gay,
Where thou wert faireft of the fair?

Mrs.

Mrs. Barbauld.

Anna Lâtitia Barbauld, Schwester des Dr. Aikin, die noch zu Hampstead, nahe bei London, lebt, wo ihr Mann eine Erziehungsanstalt hat, für die sie einige artige kleine Bücher schrieb. Sie ist Verfasserin einiger schönen Gedichte (Poems, by Mifs Aikin; Lond. 1773. 4.) unter denen einige treffliche Lieder find. Mehrere ftehen noch in den nachher mit ihrem Bruder herausgegebenen Miscellaneous Pieces, und in der zweiten Ausgabe von des leztern schdnen Effay on Song- Writing.

SON G.

Mirs. Bar: bauld.

Come here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be
That boafts to love as well as me,
And if thy breaft have felt fo wide a wound,
Come hither and thy flame approve;
I'll teach thee what it is to love,
And by what marks true paffion may be found.

It is to be all bath'd in tears,

To live upon a fmile for years,
To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet;
To kneel, to languifh and implore,
And ftill, tho' fhe difdain, adore;

It is to do all this and think thy fufferings fweet.

It is to gaze upon her eyes

With eager joy and fond furprize,

Yet temper'd with fuch chafte and awful fear,
As wretches feet who wait their doom!
Nor muft one ruder thought prefume,
Tho' but in whispers breath'd, to meet her ear.

It is to hope, tho' hope were lost;
Tho' heav'n and earth thy paffion croft;
Tho' fhe were bright as fainted queens above,

1

1

Mrs. Bar,
bauld.

And thou the leaft and meaneft fwain,
That folds his flock upon the plain,

Yet if thou dar'ft not hope, thou dost not love.

It is to quench thy joy in tears,

To nurfe ftrange doubts and groundless fears,
If pangs of jealoufy thou haft not prov'd,
Tho' fhe were fonder and more true
Than any nymph, ald poets drew,
Oh! never dream again that thou haft lov'd.

If when the darling maid is gone,
Thou doft not feek to be alone,
Wrapt in a pleafing trance of tender woe;
And mufe, and fold thy languid arms,
Feeding thy fancy on her charms,
Thou doft not love; for love is nourish'd fo.

If any hopes thy bofom fhare

But thofe which love has planted there,
Or any cares but his thy breaft enthrall,
Thou never yet his power haft known;
Love fits on a defpotic throne,

And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all.

Now if thou art fo loft a thing,
Here all thy tender forrows bring,
And prove whofe patience longest can endure;
We'll ftrife whofe fancy fhall be loft

In dreams of fondeft paffion moft,

For if thou thus haft lov'd, oh! never hope a cure.

Soame

Soame Jenyns.

Von diesem, eben so sehr durch Wit, Scharf finn und schöne Schreibart, als durch theologische und me? taphysische Paradoxie merkwürdigen Schriftsteller giebt es einige glückliche poetische Arbeiten, wovon die meisten schon im J. 1762 unter dem Titel, Mifcellanies, in zwei Bånden herauskamen. Hier ist eins seinermeisterhaftesten Lieder, voll wahrer, inniger Natursprache in der dabey vorausgez fekten Situation, und mit so viel Delikatesse behandelt.

CHLOE TO STREPHON."

Soame
Jenyns:

Too plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes
'My heart your own declare;
But for heav'ns fake, let it fuffice,
You reign triumphant there.

Forbear your utmoft power to try,
Nor farther urge your fway;
Prefs not for what I must deny,
For fear I fhould obey.

Could all your arts fuccefsful prove,
Would you a maid undo,

Whose greatest failing is her love,

And that her love for you?

Soame Jenyns. hayley.

Be you yourself my virtue's guard,

Defend, and not puriue,

Since 'tis a task for me too hard,
To ftrive with love and you.

Hayley.

S. B. II. S. 332. Auf die Schönheiten dieses Wiegenliedes einer unglücklichen, von ihrem Liebhaber hintergangenen Mutter darf ich Leser von Gefühl nicht erst aufmerksam machen. Unter den französischen Romanzèn werde ich ein ähnliches Stück von Berquin mittheilen. Dieß Englische hat Hr. R. E. R. Schmidt im Vossischen Almanach v. J. 1787, S. 16, in gleiche Versart überfest.

SON N G.

Enjoy, my child, the balmy fleep,

Which o'er thy form new beauties throws,
And long thy tranquil spirit keep

A ftranger to thy; mother's woes!
Tho' in diftress,

Flow faft, my tears! - by you reliev'd
I vent my anguifh thus unknown;
But ceafe, e're ye can be perceiv'd
By this dear child to pity prone,

Whofe