ENGLISH MELODIES. No. I. Ir has been a subject of national reproach that the English have no national songs. Every body knows that the Irish and the Scotch have, by their National Melodies, just published, added to their reputation and to our humiliation, and even the Jews have of late found a David in Lord Byron, who has endeavoured to place them in the same scale (of the gamut at least) with their Christian neighbours. A patriotic society of English individuals have determined, as far as in them lies, to retrieve our national character; and to enter the lists with the Irish, Scotch, and Hebrew Melodists. A person of the name of Milbourne was said by Dryden to be the fairest of critics, because he published his own verses with those of his antagonists; and left the public to judge of the merit of the two productions. We, too, are ambitious of the praise of fair criticism, and shall in the same spirit exhibit to our readers, the works, which our Society undertakes to imitate, previously to our laying before them our own performances on the same model. An impartial public will decide between the rival compositions; and our publication will be so far at least assured of success, that one half of it will be of acknowledged merit. We shall begin (which may be called taking the Bull by the horns) with one of the celebrated Irish Melodies. SONG. THE WORDS BY T. MOORE, ESQ.-THE MUSIC ARRANGED BY SIR J. STEVENSON. I. Oh! the days are gone when beauty bright When my dream of life from morn till night New hopes may bloom, New days may come, Of milder, calmer beam; But there's nothing half so sweet in life As Love's young dream; Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life IMITATED. THE WORDS BY JOHN CALCRAFT, ESQ.-THE MUSIC BY C. W. W. WYNNE, ESQ. I. Oh! the time is past, when Quarter-day My cares would chase, When all in life that made me gay Was place-still place; New hopes may bloom, New offers come, Of surer, higher pay But there's nothing half so sweet in life As Quarter-day! Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life II. Tho' the bard to purer joys may soar, When wild youth's past; Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear And at every close she blush'd to hear III. Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, Which first love trac'd ;' Still, it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste! |