tated in several fongs. Thefe are fuch as in common language would be peculiarly entitled odes, from their high ftrain of fancy and poetical diction. That of Prior,

THE fimple pathetic of Tibullus and the writers of elegy, is moft fweetly manifested in that charming fong of Dr. Percy's,

"O Nancy wilt thou go with me"

which has scarcely its equal for real tenderness in this or any other language.

OTHER resemblances might be pointed out, but I imagine it is unneceffary to go farther. What has been already obferved may serve to put a reader of taste upon remarking those niceties of composition,

and

and delicate variations, which he might otherwise have paffed over; and I would not anticipate the pleasure he will receive from his own difcoveries of this kind. An ample ftore of beauties lies open for his inspection, and he will probably find reafon to flatter himself, that in this species of poetry, as well as in every other, the English follow the claffic antients with a bold and vigorous ftep, and ftrain hard for the palm of victory.

PAS

PASSIONATE

AND DESCRIPTIVE

SON G S.

B

LEST as th' immortal Gods is he,*

The youth that fondly fits by thee;
And fees, and hears thee, all the while,
Softly fpeak, and fweetly smile.

'Twas this depriv'd my foul of reft,
And rais'd fuch tumults in my breaft;
For while I gaz'd, in tranfport toft,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My

*THOUGH it may feem irregular to begin a collection of English fongs with an ode of Sappho, yet I am tempted to do it on account of the excellence of the tranflation, which has almost the merit of an original, and that the reader may have fo nearly in his view a pattern of perfection with which he may compare the reft,

My bosom glow'd, a subtle flame

Ran quick thro' all my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darknefs hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd ;
My feeble pulfe forgot to play,
I fainted, funk, and died away.

PHILLIPS.

TH

HY fatal fhafts unerring move,
I bow before thine altar, Love ;

I feel the foft refiftlefs flame
Glide swift thro' all my vital frame.

For while I gaze, my bofom glows,
My blood in tides impetuous flows;
Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll,
And floods of tranfport whelm my foul.

My fault'ring tongue attempts in vain
In foothing numbers to complain;

My tongue fome fecret magic ties,
My murmurs fink in broken fighs.

Condemn'd to nurfe eternal care,
And ever drop the filent tear,
Unheard I mourn, unknown I figh,
Unfriended live, unpity'd die.

SMOLLETT.

H! the fhepherd's mournful fate!

When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish,

To bear the fcornful fair one's hate,

Nor dare difclofe his anguish.

Yet eager looks, and dying fighs,
My fecret foul difcover,

While rapture trembling thro' my eyes

Reveals how much I love her.

The tender glance, the redd'ning cheek,
O'erspread with rifing blufhes,

A thoufand various ways they fpeak

A thousand various wishes.

For