In the face, both of this assurance of the limited extent of Hume's poetical efforts, and of the circumstance that he was occasionally in the practice of copying such verses as pleased his ear,[227:2] or fancy, I venture to offer the following specimens of his versification, admitting the possibility but not the probability that some minute investigator might be able to identify them as the production of a less distinguished bard. The censorious critic will probably admit their genuineness, on the plea that no one but their author would commit such verses to writing. But apart from their internal evidence, there is every reason to presume that these efforts are by Hume. The first piece is dated in the writer's hand, as if to mark the day when it was composed. With the exception of the third in order, they all contain, in corrections and otherwise, decided marks of being composed by the person in whose handwriting they are; and they are in the handwriting of David Hume.[228:1] _4th Nov. 1747._ Go, plaintive sounds, and to the fair My secret wounds impart, Tell all I hope, tell all I fear, Each motion in my heart. But she, methinks, is listening now To some amusing strain, The smile that triumphs o'er her brow, Seems not to heed my pain. Yet, plaintive sounds--yet, yet delay, Howe'er my love repine, Let this gay minute pass away, The next, perhaps, is mine. Yes, plaintive sounds, no longer crost, Your griefs shall soon be o'er; Her cheek, undimpled now, has lost The smile it lately wore. Yes, plaintive sounds, she now is yours, 'Tis now your turn to move: Essay to soften all her powers, And be that softness love. Cease plaintive sounds, your task is done, That serious tender air Proves o'er her heart the conquest won, I see you melting there. Return, ye smiles,--return again, Bring back each sprightly grace: I yield up to your charming reign That sweet enchanting face. I take no outward shows amiss; Rove where you will, her eyes: Still let her smiles each shepherd bless, So that she hear my sighs. If this piece be deficient in fire or polish, it has at least the merit of simplicity, and of not being a slavish adaptation to the formal taste of the age. The following pieces will scarcely perhaps be thought worthy of the like qualified praise. Tell me, Clarinda, why this scorn, Why hatred give for love? Why for a gentler purpose born, Wouldst thou a tyrant prove? Why draw a cloud upon that face, Made to enslave mankind? Why through your lips does thunder pass, Those lips for love design'd. Kindness, conjoin'd with meaner charms, Will from you conquests gain; We fly into _extended_ arms, In _close-embraced_ remain.