[23] Id. ii. 81, and Strype’s Annals, p. 336.

    [24] Id. iii. 23.

* * * * *

SONGS,

BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

From the "Summer Fete," just published.

  Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine,
    As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see;
  But, as I’m not particular—­wit, love, and wine,
    Are for one night’s amusement sufficient for me. 
  Nay—­humble and strange as my tastes may appear—­
    If driv’n to the worst, I could manage, thank heaven,
  To put up with eyes such as beam round me here,
    And with wine such as this is six days out of seven. 
  So pledge me a bumber—­your sages profound
    May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan;
  But as we are not sages, why—­send the cup round—­
    We must only be happy the best way we can.

  A reward by some king was once offer’d, we’re told,
    To whoe’er could invent a new bliss for mankind;
  But talk of new pleasures!—­give me but the old,
    And I’ll leave your inventors all new ones they find. 
  Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss,
    Set sail in the pinnance of Fancy some day,
  Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this,
    And such eyes as we’ve here be the stars of my way! 
  In the meantime, a bumper—­your Angels on high,
    May have pleasures unknown to life’s limited span;
  But, as we are not angels, why—­let the flask fly,
    We must only be happy all ways that we can.

* * * * *

  Oh, where art thou dreaming,
    On land or on sea? 
  In my lattice is gleaming
    The watch-light for thee: 
  And this fond heart is glowing
    To welcome thee home,
  And the night is fast going,
    But thou art not come: 
  Thou com’st not—­No, thou com’st not!

  ’Tis the time when night flowers
    Should wake from their rest,
  ’Tis the hour of all hours,
    When the lute murmurs best. 
  But the flowers are half sleeping
    Till thy glance they see,
  And the hush’d lute is keeping
    Its music for thee: 
  Yet thou com’st not—­No, thou com’st not!

* * * * *

  Who’ll buy?—­’tis Folly’s shop, who’ll buy? 
    We’ve toys to suit all ranks and ages;
  Beside our usual fools’ supply,
    We’ve lots of playthings too, for sages. 
  For reasoners, here’s a juggler’s cup,

    That fullest seems when nothing’s in it;
  And nine pins set, like systems, up,
    To be knock’d down the following minute. 
      Who’ll buy?—­’tis Folly’s shop, who’ll buy?

Gay caps we here of foolscap make,
For bards to wear in dog-day weather;
Or bards the bells alone may take,
And leave to wits the cap and feather,
Tetotums we’ve for patriots got,
Who court the mob with antics humble;
Alike their short and dizzy lot,
A glorious spin, and then—­a tumble. 
Who’ll buy? &c. &c.