Give of his title proof,Save by his happy tendency
"In endless chains here lie ye now,Nothing can save you from the slough.
1815.*-----TO THE CHOSEN ONE.[This sweet song is doubtless one of those addressed toFrederica.]
We're bringing gold, we're bringing myrrh,The women incense always prefer;And if we have wine of a worthy growth,We three to drink like six are not loth.
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,Thou wilt place upon thy fleecy pinionWhen he sleepeth on the rock,--Thou wilt shelter with thy guardian wingIn the forest's midnight hour.
Which obstructs our rapture's tide?Let it waste itself away;
My husband soonWill home returnFrom labour. Tarry, tarry, man,And with us eat our evening meal.
And the burden of gold was in thine apron upheld.Oft did I cry, Enough! But fairer fruits were still falling