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CORIN, most unhappie swaine,
Whither wilt thou drive thy flocke?
Little foode is on the plaine;

Full of danger is the rocke:

Wolfes and beares doe kepe the woodes; Forests tangled are with brakes; Meadowes subject are to floodes; Moores are full of miry lakes.

Yet to shunne all plaine, and hill, Forest, moore, and meadow-ground, Hunger will as surely kill:

How may then reliefe be found?

Such is hapless Corin's fate:

Since my waywarde love begunne, Equall doubts begett debate

What to seeke, and what to shunne.

Spare to speake, and spare to speed;
Yet to speake will move disdaine:
If I see her not I bleed,

Yet her sight augments my paine.

What may then poor Corin doe?
Tell me, shepherds, quickly tell,
For to linger thus in woe

Is the lover's sharpest hell.

Percy's Reliques.



WHERE griping griefs the heart would wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress,

There Music, with her silver sound,

With speed is wont to send redress:
Of troubled minds, in ev'ry sore,
Sweet music hath a salve in store.

In joy it makes our mirth abound,

In woe it cheers our heavy sprites; Distracted heads relief hath found,

By music's pleasant sweet delights: Our senses all, and e'en what more, Are subject unto music's lore.

The gods by music have their praise ;
The life, the soul therein doth joy:
For, as the Roman poet says,

In seas, whom pirates would destroy,
A dolphin sav'd, from death most sharp,
Arion, playing on his harp.

O heav'nly gift, that rules the mind,
E'en as the stern doth rule the ship!
O music, whom the gods assign'd

To comfort man, whom cares would nip!
Since thou both man and beast dost move,
What beast is he, will thee disprove?


James Dawson was one of the Manchester rebels, who was hanged, drawn, and quartered, on Kennington Common, July 30, 1746.

COME listen to my mournful tale,

Ye tender hearts, and lovers dear;
Nor will you scorn to heave a sigh,
Nor will you
blush to shed a tear.

And thou, dear Kitty, peerless maid,
Do thou a pensive ear incline;
For thou can'st weep at ev'ry woe,
And pity ev'ry plaint but mine.


Young Dawson was a gallant youth,
A brighter never trod the plain;
And well he lov'd one charming maid,
And dearly was he lov❜d again

One tender maid she lov'd him dear,

Of gentle blood the damsel came, And faultless was her beauteous form, And spotless was her virgin fame.

But curse on party's hateful strife,

That led the faithful youth astray
The day the rebel clans appear'd:
O had he never seen that day!

Their colours and their sash he wore,
And in the fatal dress was found;
And now he must that death endure,
Which gives the brave the keenest wound.

How pale was then his true-love's cheek, When Jemmy's sentence reach'd her ear! For never yet did Alpine snows

So pale, nor yet so chill appear.

With fault'ring voice she weeping said,
"Oh Dawson! monarch of my heart,
Think not thy death shall end our loves,
For thou and I will never part.

"Yet might sweet mercy find a place,
And bring relief to Jemmy's woes,
O GEORGE! without a pray'r for thee
My orisons should never close.

"The gracious prince that gives him life Would crown a never-dying flame, And every tender babe I bore

Should learn to lisp the giver's name.

"But tho', dear youth! thou should'st be dragg'd To yonder ignominious tree,

Thou shalt not want a faithful friend
To share thy bitter fate with thee."

O then her mourning coach was call'd,
The sledge mov'd slowly on before;
Tho' borne in a triumphal car,

She had not lov'd her fav'rite more.

She follow'd him, prepar'd to view
The terrible behests of law;
And the last scene of Jemmy's woes
With calm and stedfast eye she saw.

Distorted was that blooming face,

Which she had fondly lov'd so long: And stifled was that tuneful breath,

Which in her praise had sweetly sung:

And sever'd was that beauteous neck,

Round which her arms had fondly clos'd:
And mangled was that beauteous breast,
On which her love-sick head repos'd:

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