Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful,
This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,
  Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful.
And, even tho' it taste of the smoke of that flame,
  Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden--
Fill up--there's a fire in some hearts I could name,
  Which may work too its charm, tho' as lawless and hidden.
So drink of the cup--for oh there's a spell in
  Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
  Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Down in the valley come meet me to-night,
  And I'll tell you your fortune truly
As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light,
  To a young maiden, shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh,
  Lest haply the stars should deceive me;
Such secrets between you and me and the sky
  Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim,
  My science shall call up before you
A male apparition,--the image of him
  Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

And if to that phantom you'll be kind,
  So fondly around you he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find
  'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,
  He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion--
An ardor, of which such an innocent sprite
  You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise,
  As in destiny's book I've not seen them,
Must only be left to the stars and your eyes
  To settle, ere morning, between them.

OH, YE DEAD!

Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead![1] whom we know by the light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes, tho' you move like men who live,
  Why leave you thus your graves,
  In far off fields and waves,
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,
  To haunt this spot where all
  Those eyes that wept your fall,
And the hearts that wailed you, like your own, lie dead?

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;
And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;
  But still thus even in death,
  So sweet the living breath
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er,
  That ere, condemned, we go
  To freeze mid Hecla's snow,
We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!

[1] Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of
Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk
about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why
they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to
Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-linked dance their circles run,
  Sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
  Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves
Its lingering smile on golden eyes,
  Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim,
Thy Naïads prepare his steed[1] for him
  Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,
  White Steed, most joy to thee;
Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring
  My love, my chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launched, thy long mane[2] curls,
  Fair Steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
  Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
  Most sweet that death will be,
Which, under the next May evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, I'll die for thee.

[1] The particulars of the tradition respecting Donohue and his White
Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully
detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit
of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of Mayday,
gliding over the lake on his favorite white horse to the sound of sweet
unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung
wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.

[2] The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day,
crested with foam, "O'Donohue's White Horses."

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
  To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
  Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
  And far more sweet,
Than e'er beneath the moonlight star,
Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,
  The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,
  And only then,--
The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
  Breathed back again!

OH BANQUET NOT.

Oh banquet not in those shining bowers,
  Where Youth resorts, but come to me:
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
  More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.
And there we shall have our feast of tears,
  And many a cup in silence pour;
Our guests, the shades of former years,
  Our toasts to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
  Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,
  To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.
Or, while some blighted laurel waves
  Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves,
  Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking
    Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crowned,
  And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreached by all that sunshine round,
  My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
    By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken
    For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark
  To the ocean hurries, resting never,
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
  I know not, heed not, hastening ever
    To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet when springing
    From thee, thee, only thee.
Like spells, that naught on earth can break,
  Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
  Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
    By thee, thee, only thee.

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave
  To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,
  Where the first--where the last of her Patriots lies?

No--faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips,
  Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,
Yet, yet shall it sound, mid a nation's eclipse,
  And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost;--[1]

What a union of all the affections and powers
  By which life is exalted, embellished, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit--whose centre was ours,
  While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,
  Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime--
Like a pyramid raised in the desert--where he
  And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;

That _one_ lucid interval, snatched from the gloom
  And the madness of ages, when filled with his soul,
A Nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom,
  And for _one_ sacred instant, touched Liberty's goal?

Who, that ever hath heard him--hath drank at the source
  Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,
  And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave
  Wandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thro',
As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave,
  With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.

Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd,
  In a home full of love, he delighted to tread
'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed,
  As if each brought a new civic crown for his head--

Is there one, who hath thus, thro' his orbit of life
  But at distance observed him--thro' glory, thro' blame,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,
  Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,--

Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns
  Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrined--
O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns
  Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

[1] These lines were written on the death of our great patriot, Grattan,
in the year 1820. It is only the two first verses that are either intended
or fitted to be sung.

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

Oh, the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing,
    O'er files arrayed
    With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
    That song, whose breath
    May lead to death,
But never to retreating.
Oh the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing
  O'er files arrayed
  With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather--
For ask yon despot, whether
  His plumed bands
  Could bring such hands
And hearts as ours together.
Leave pomps to those who need 'em--
Give man but heart and freedom,
  And proud he braves
  The gaudiest slaves
That crawl where monarchs lead 'em.
The sword may pierce the beaver,
Stone walls in time may sever,
  'Tis mind alone,
  Worth steel and stone,
That keeps men free for ever.
Oh that sight entrancing,
When the morning's beam is glancing,
  O'er files arrayed
  With helm and blade,
And in Freedom's cause advancing!

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,
  May calm and sunshine long be thine!
How fair thou art let others tell,--
  To _feel_ how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell
  In memory's dream that sunny smile,
Which o'er thee on that evening fell,
  When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,
  Who had to turn to paths of care--
Through crowded haunts again to run,
  And leave thee bright and silent there;

No more unto thy shores to come,
  But, on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
  Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours
  To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,
  Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrivalled still thy grace,
  Thou dost not look, as then, _too_ blest,
But thus in shadow, seem'st a place
  Where erring man might hope to rest--

Might hope to rest, and find in thee
  A gloom like Eden's on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,
  Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!
  And all the lovelier for thy tears--
For tho' but rare thy sunny smile,
  'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,
  But, when _indeed_ they come divine--
The brightest light the sun e'er threw
  Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.[1]

'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought,
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought--
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those
He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes,
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er
From Dinis' green isle, to Glenà's wooded shore.

He listened--while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest,
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir,
As if loath to let song so enchanting expire.

It seemed as if every sweet note, that died here,
Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,
Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain
They had ceased upon earth was awaking again!

Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath
Seemed to circle his name with a charm against death,
He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim,
"Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:

"Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away,
'Twill be caught up again in some happier day,
And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,
Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."

[1] Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney.

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

Fairest! put on awhile
  These pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thy own green isle
  In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,
  At golden sunset hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom,
  As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays
  And fearlessly meets the ardor
Of the warm Summer's gaze,
  With only her tears to guard her.
Rocks, thro' myrtle boughs
  In grace majestic frowning;
Like some bold warrior's brows
  That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair,
  That never hath bird come nigh them,
But from his course thro' air
  He hath been won down by them;--[1]
Types, sweet maid, of thee,
  Whose look, whose blush inviting,
Never did Love yet see
  From Heaven, without alighting.

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,[2]
  And caves, where the gem is sleeping,
Bright as the tears thy lid
  Lets fall in lonely weeping.
Glens,[3] where Ocean comes,
  To 'scape the wild wind's rancor,
And harbors, worthiest homes
  Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.

Then, if, while scenes so grand,
  So beautiful, shine before thee,
Pride for thy own dear land
  Should haply be stealing o'er thee,
Oh, let grief come first,
  O'er pride itself victorious--
Thinking how man hath curst
  What Heaven had made so glorious!

[1] In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr.
Keating says, "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which
draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to
light upon the rock."

[2] "Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the
abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind
their ears: and this we find confirmed by a present made A.C. 1094, by
Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a
considerable quantity of Irish pearls."--_O'Halloran_.

[3] Glengariff.

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND.

Quick! we have but a second,
  Fill round the cup, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
  And we must away, away!
Grasp the pleasure that's flying,
  For oh, not Orpheus' strain
Could keep sweet hours from dying,
  Or charm them to life again.
    Then, quick! we have but a second,
      Fill round the cup while you may;
    For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
      And we must away, away!

See the glass, how it flushes.
  Like some young Hebe's lip,
And half meets thine, and blushes
  That thou shouldst delay to sip.
Shame, oh shame unto thee,
  If ever thou see'st that day,
When a cup or lip shall woo thee,
  And turn untouched away!
    Then, quick! we have but a second,
      Fill round, fill round, while you may;
    For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
      And we must away, away!

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends,
  For all the long years I've been wandering away--
To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
  As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
Tho' haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
  The snow-fall of time may be stealing--what then?
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
  We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,
  In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
  Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
  When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced,
  The warmth of a moment like this brings to light.

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide,
  To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,
Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
  The wreck of full many a hope shining thro';
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,
  That once made a garden of all the gay shore,
Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours,
 And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,
  Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,
  For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
  To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on,
  Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,
  The more we should welcome and bless them the more;
They're ours, when we meet,--they are lost when we part,
  Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er.
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,
  Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain,
That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,
  Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain.

THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone,
A youth, whose moments had calmly flown,
Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night,
He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite.

As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er
The golden sands of that island shore,
A foot-print sparkled before his sight--
'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!

Beside a fountain, one sunny day,
As bending over the stream he lay,
There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light,
And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.

He turned, but, lo, like a startled bird,
That spirit fled!--and the youth but heard
Sweet music, such as marks the flight
Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.

One night, still haunted by that bright look,
The boy, bewildered, his pencil took,
And, guided only by memory's light,
Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.

"Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried
A voice, low whispering by his side,
"Now turn and see,"--here the youth's delight
Sealed the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.

"Of all the Spirits of land and sea,"
Then rapt he murmured, "there's none like thee,
"And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light
"In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!"

AS VANQUISHED ERIN.

As vanquished Erin wept beside
  The Boyne's ill-fated river,
She saw where Discord, in the tide,
  Had dropt his loaded quiver.
"Lie hid," she cried, "ye venomed darts,
  "Where mortal eye may shun you;
"Lie hid--the stain of manly hearts,
  "That bled for me, is on you."

But vain her wish, her weeping vain,--
  As Time too well hath taught her--
Each year the Fiend returns again,
  And dives into that water;
And brings, triumphant, from beneath
  His shafts of desolation,
And sends them, winged with worse than death,
  Through all her maddening nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns,
  Even now, beside that river--
Unwearied still the Fiend returns,
  And stored is still his quiver.
"When will this end, ye Powers of Good?"
  She weeping asks for ever;
But only hears, from out that flood,
  The Demon answer, "Never!"

DESMOND'S SONG.[1]

By the Feal's wave benighted,
  No star in the skies,
To thy door by Love lighted,
  I first saw those eyes.
Some voice whispered o'er me,
  As the threshold I crost,
There was ruin before me,
  If I loved, I was lost.

Love came, and brought sorrow
  Too soon in his train;
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow
  'Twere welcome again.
Though misery's full measure
  My portion should be,
I would drain it with pleasure,
  If poured out by thee.

You, who call it dishonor
  To bow to this flame,
If you've eyes, look but on her,
  And blush while you blame.
Hath the pearl less whiteness
  Because of its birth?
Hath the violet less brightness
  For growing near earth?

No--Man for his glory
  To ancestry flies;
But Woman's bright story
  Is told in her eyes.

While the Monarch but traces
  Thro' mortals his line,
Beauty, born of the Graces,
  Banks next to Divine!

[1] "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so
engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to
take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents,
called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly
inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He
married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose
brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable
degradation of his family."--_Leland_, vol. ii.

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

They know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower,
I could harm what I love,--as the sun's wanton ray
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No--beaming with light as those young features are,
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:
It is not that cheek--'tis the soul dawning clear
Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear:
As the sky we look up to, tho' glorious and fair,
Is looked up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

I wish I was by that dim Lake,[1]
Where sinful souls their farewell take
Of this vain world, and half-way lie
In death's cold shadow, ere they die.
There, there, far from thee,
Deceitful world, my home should be;
Where, come what might of gloom and pain,
False hope should ne'er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound
Of unseen waters falling round;
The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head,
Like man, unquiet even when dead!
These, ay, these shall wean
My soul from life's deluding scene,
And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom,
Like willows, downward towards the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night
Would win repose, first quench the light,
So must the hopes, that keep this breast
Awake, be quenched, ere it can rest.
Cold, cold, this heart must grow,
Unmoved by either joy or woe,
Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown
Within their current turns to stone.

[1] These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of
superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy
regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become
the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were
several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth
of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all
Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost
every country in Europe."

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre
  The rosy rays of evening fell,
As if to feed with their soft fire
  The soul within that trembling shell.
The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,
  And played around those lips that sung
And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,
  If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burned,
  Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew;
And, when to gaze again I turned,
  The minstrel's form seemed fading too.
As if _her_ light and heaven's were one,
  The glory all had left that frame;
And from her glimmering lips the tone,
  As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever loved, but had the thought
  That he and all he loved must part?
Filled with this fear, I flew and caught
  The fading image to my heart--
And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom?
  "Oh light of youth's resplendent day!
"Must ye then lose your golden bloom,
  "And thus, like sunshine, die away?"

SING--SING--MUSIC WAS GIVEN.

Sing--sing--Music was given,
  To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
  By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,
  But Love from the lips his true archery wings;
And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,
  At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.
  Then sing--sing--Music was given,
    To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
  Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
    By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

When Love, rocked by his mother,
  Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,
"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other
  "Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."
Dreaming of music he slumbered the while
  Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke,
And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile,
  While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.
  Then sing--sing--Music was given,
    To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
  Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
    By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

THO' HUMBLE THE BANQUET.

Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
  Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,
  And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling
  Of him thou regardest her favoring ray,
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
  Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
  Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;
Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
  Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
  And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved,
The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet
  Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.

Then, come,--if a board so untempting hath power
  To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;
And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,
  Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.

SING, SWEET HARP.

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me
  Some song of ancient days,
Whose sounds, in this sad memory,
  Long buried dreams shall raise;--
Some lay that tells of vanished fame,
  Whose light once round us shone;
Of noble pride, now turned to shame,
  And hopes for ever gone.--
Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;
  Alike our doom is cast,
Both lost to all but memory,
  We live but in the past.

How mournfully the midnight air
  Among thy chords doth sigh,
As if it sought some echo there
  Of voices long gone by;--
Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemed
  The foremost then in fame;
Of Bards who, once immortal deemed,
  Now sleep without a name.--
In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air
  Among thy chords doth sigh;
In vain it seeks an echo there
  Of voices long gone by.

Couldst thou but call those spirits round.
  Who once, in bower and hall,
Sat listening to thy magic sound,
  Now mute and mouldering all;--
But, no; they would but wake to weep
  Their children's slavery;
Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,
  The dead, at least, are free!--
Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,
  That knell of Freedom's day;
Or, listening to its death-like moan,
  Let me, too, die away.

SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.

To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
  There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up,--
But there's wine still in the cup,
  And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
  We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
  When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet's weeping too!
  With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;
  With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;--
The last that o'er us shone
  Saw our children around us play;
The next--ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
  But--no matter--grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;
  No matter--grasp thy sword and away!

Let those, who brook the chain
Of Saxon or of Dane,
  Ignobly by their firesides stay;
One sigh to home be given,
One heartfelt prayer to heaven,
  Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!
  Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!

THE WANDERING BARD.

What life like that of the bard can be--
The wandering bard, who roams as free
As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,
And, like that lark, a music brings
Within him, where'er he comes or goes,--
A fount that for ever flows!
The world's to him like some playground,
Where fairies dance their moonlight round;--
If dimmed the turf where late they trod,
The elves but seek some greener sod;
So, when less bright his scene of glee,
To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,
Without a bard to fix her bloom?
They tell us, in the moon's bright round,
Things lost in this dark world are found;
So charms, on earth long past and gone,
In the poet's lay live on.--
Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?
You've only to give them all to him.
Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,
Can lend them life, this life beyond,
And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,--
Young stars that never die!

Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,--
For, tho' he hath countless airy homes,
To which his wing excursive roves,
Yet still, from time to time, he loves
To light upon earth and find such cheer
As brightens our banquet here.
No matter how far, how fleet he flies,
You've only to light up kind young eyes,
Such signal-fires as here are given,--
And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,
The minute such call to love or mirth
Proclaims he's wanting on earth!

ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.

Alone in crowds to wander on,
And feel that all the charm is gone
Which voices dear and eyes beloved
Shed round us once, where'er we roved--
This, this the doom must be
Of all who've loved, and lived to see
The few bright things they thought would stay
For ever near them, die away.

Tho' fairer forms around us throng,
Their smiles to others all belong,
And want that charm which dwells alone
Round those the fond heart calls its own.
Where, where the sunny brow?
The long-known voice--where are they now?
Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,
The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,
If all her art can not call forth
One bliss like those we felt of old
From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?
No, no,--her spell is vain,--
As soon could she bring back again
Those eyes themselves from out the grave,
As wake again one bliss they gave.

I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.

I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,--
  Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:
I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,
  Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;
Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies,
  Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;
Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,
  The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!"

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,
  When stars can be heard in ocean dip,
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,
  Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:
Like him, the boy,[1] who born among
  The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,
Sits ever thus,--his only song
  To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"

[1] The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians.

SONG OF INNISFAIL.

They came from a land beyond the sea,
  And now o'er the western main
Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,
  From the sunny land of Spain.
"Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,
  Our destined home or grave?"[1]
Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,
  They swept the Atlantic wave.

And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines
  A sparkle of radiant green,
As tho' in that deep lay emerald mines,
  Whose light thro' the wave was seen.
"'Tis Innisfail[2]--'tis Innisfail!"
  Rings o'er the echoing sea;
While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail
  That home of the brave and free.

Then turned they unto the Eastern wave,
  Where now their Day-God's eye
A look of such sunny-omen gave
  As lighted up sea and sky.
Nor frown was seen thro' sky or sea,
  Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,
When first on their Isle of Destiny
  Our great forefathers trod.

[1] Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid,
who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of
a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit.--_Keating_.

[2] The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.

THE NIGHT DANCE.

Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
  And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,
  Obey the mute call and heave into motion.
Then, sound notes--the gayest, the lightest,
  That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!
      Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard
  In that City of Statues described by romancers,
So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred,
  And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,
  And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,--
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,
  And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us?
Again, that strain!--to hear it thus sounding
  Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding--
      Again! Again!

Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,
  Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,
Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,
  And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!

THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
  And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
  That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
  My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason
  Should I the syren call obey.

And, see--the lamps still livelier glitter,
  The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
  To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
  Could bend to tyranny's rude control,
Thus quail at sight of woman's charms
  And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
  The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And,--their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,--
  Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1]
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
  But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

[1] The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to
dislodge from their stations.

OH, ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE.

Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,
  How oft I dream of thee,
And of those days when, by thy shore,
  I wandered young and free.
Full many a path I've tried, since then,
  Thro' pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
  I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs,
  At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
  That danced along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
  With daylight's parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light,
  Which dreaming poets sing;[1]--

That Eden where the immortal brave
  Dwell in a land serene,--
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,
  At sunset, oft are seen.
Ah dream too full of saddening truth!
  Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,--
  As sunny and as vain!

[1] "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear
day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the Enchanted Island, the
paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of
romantic stories",--_Beaufort's "Ancient Topography of Ireland_."

LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.

Lay his sword by his side,[1]--it hath served him too well
  Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
  Its point was still turned to a flying foe.
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,
  Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,--
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
  And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause--for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
  As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;--
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
  Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!"
And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep,
  "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
"Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,--
  "It hath victory's life in it yet!"

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,
  "Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,
"Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed,
 Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.
But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud use
 Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,--
Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,
 Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"

[1] It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the
Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their heroes along with them.

OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS.

Oh, could we do with this world of ours
As thou dost with thy garden bowers,
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,
  What a heaven on earth we'd make it!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,
  By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air,
And in themselves a lustre bear,
A stock of light, still ready there,
  Whenever they wish to use it;
So, in this world I'd make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy
  Break forth whenever we choose it.

While every joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,
  Such shadows will all be omitted:--
Unless they're like that graceful one,
Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun.
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon
  Each spot where it hath flitted.

THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,[1]
  And its Chief, mid his heroes reclining,
Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall,
  Where his sword hangs idly shining.
    When, hark! that shout
    From the vale without,--
    "Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!"
    Every Chief starts up
    From his foaming cup,
  And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry.

The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,
  And they sing such thrilling numbers,
'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old,
  Breaking forth from the place of slumbers!
    Spear to buckler rang,
    As the minstrels sang,
  And the Sun-burst[2] o'er them floated wide;
    While remembering the yoke
    Which their father's broke,
  "On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,
  O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;
While onward moved, in the light of its fame,
  That banner of Erin, towering.
    With the mingling shock
    Rung cliff and rock,
  While, rank on rank, the invaders die:
    And the shout, that last,
    O'er the dying past,
  Was "victory! victory!"--the Finian's cry.

[1] The Palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster.
It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the
name of the Hill of Allen, in the county of Kildare. The Finians, or
Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief
commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an
anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends.

[2] The name given to the banner of the Irish.

THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.

The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er,
Thy triumph hath stained the charm thy sorrows then wore;
And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains,
Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart,
That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art;
And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burned,
Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turned?

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led,
With eyes on her temple fixt, how proud was thy tread!
Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that summit to gain
Or died in the porch than thus dishonor the fane.

FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

From this hour the pledge is given,
  From this hour my soul is thine:
Come what will, from earth or heaven,
  Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.
When the proud and great stood by thee,
  None dared thy rights to spurn;
And if now they're false and fly thee,
  Shall I, too, basely turn?
No;--whate'er the fires that try thee,
  In the same this heart shall burn.

Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest,
  Offers now no friendly shore,
Light may come where all looks darkest,
  Hope hath life when life seems o'er.
And, of those past ages dreaming,
  When glory decked thy brow,
Oft I fondly think, tho' seeming
  So fallen and clouded now,
Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming,--
  None so bright, so blest as thou!

SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.[1]

Silence is in our festal halls,--
  Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
  Her minstrel's voice responds no more;--
All silent as the Eolian shell
  Sleeps at the close of some bright day,
When the sweet breeze that waked its swell
  At sunny morn hath died away.

Yet at our feasts thy spirit long
  Awakened by music's spell shall rise;
For, name so linked with deathless song
  Partakes its charm and never dies:
And even within the holy fane
  When music wafts the soul to heaven,
One thought to him whose earliest strain
  Was echoed there shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day.
  The social night when by thy side
He who now weaves this parting lay
  His skilless voice with thine allied;
And sung those songs whose every tone,
  When bard and minstrel long have past,
Shall still in sweetness all their own
  Embalmed by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,--
  Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,
From thee the borrowed glory came,
  And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire
  His latest song and still there be.
As evening closes round his lyre,
  One ray upon its chords from thee.

[1] It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these
lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old
and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.

NATIONAL AIRS

ADVERTISEMENT.

It is Cicero, I believe, who says "_naturâ, ad modes ducimur;_" and the
abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except
England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The
lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented
with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions
will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of
those _half_ creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in
search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this
other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies
which have hitherto had none,--or only such as are unintelligible to the
generality of their hearers,--it is the object and ambition of the present
work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are
strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any
wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy
home, we shall venture to claim it as an _estray_ swan, and enrich our
humble Hippocrene with its song.

T.M.

NATIONAL AIRS

A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.

(SPANISH AIR.)

"A Temple to Friendship;" said Laura, enchanted,
  "I'll build in this garden,--the thought is divine!"
Her temple was built and she now only wanted
  An image of Friendship to place on the shrine.
She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her
  A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent;
But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer
  Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

"Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining
  "An image whose looks are so joyless and dim;--
"But yon little god, upon roses reclining,
  "We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him."
So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden
  She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove:
"Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden
  "Who came but for Friendship and took away Love."

FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Flow on, thou shining river;
  But ere thou reach the sea
Seek Ella's bower and give her
  The wreaths I fling o'er thee
And tell her thus, if she'll be mine
  The current of our lives shall be,
With joys along their course to shine,
  Like those sweet flowers on thee.

But if in wandering thither
  Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,
Then leave those wreaths to wither
  Upon the cold bank there;
And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,
  Her lone and loveless Charms shall be
Thrown by upon life's weedy shore.
  Like those sweet flowers from thee.

ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE.

(INDIAN AIR.)

All that's bright must fade,--
  The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
  But to be lost when sweetest.
Stars that shine and fall;--
  The flower that drops in springing;--
These, alas! are types of all
  To which our hearts are clinging.
All that's bright must fade,--
  The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
  But to be lost when sweetest?

Who would seek our prize
  Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
  That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be
  In utter darkness lying,
Than to be blest with light and see
  That light for ever flying.
All that's bright must fade,--
  The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
  But to be lost when sweetest!

SO WARMLY WE MET.

(HUNGARIAN AIR.)

So warmly we met and so fondly we parted,
  That which was the sweeter even I could not tell,--
That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted,
  Or that tear of passion, which blest our farewell.
To meet was a heaven and to part thus another,--
  Our joy and our sorrow seemed rivals in bliss;
Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each other
  In smiles and in tears than that moment to this.

The first was like day-break, new, sudden, delicious,--
  The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet;
The last like the farewell of daylight, more precious,
  More glowing and deep, as 'tis nearer its set.
Our meeting, tho' happy, was tinged by a sorrow
  To think that such happiness could not remain;
While our parting, tho' sad, gave a hope that to-morrow
  Would bring back the blest hour of meeting again.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

(AIR.--THE BELLS OF ST. PETERSBURGH.)

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth and home and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are past away:
And many a heart, that then was gay.
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone:
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee,
  Which now so sweetly thy heart employ:
Should the cold world come to wake thee
  From all thy visions of youth and joy;
Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst banish
  Him who once thought thy young heart his own,
All, like spring birds, falsely vanish,
  And leave thy winter unheeded and lone;--

Oh! 'tis then that he thou hast slighted
  Would come to cheer thee, when all seem'd o'er;
Then the truant, lost and blighted,
  Would to his bosom be taken once more.
Like that dear bird we both can remember,
  Who left us while summer shone round,
But, when chilled by bleak December,
  On our threshold a welcome still found.

REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY.

(ITALIAN AIR.)

Reason and Folly and Beauty, they say,
Went on a party of pleasure one day:
  Folly played
  Around the maid,
The bells of his cap rung merrily out;
  While Reason took
  To his sermon-book--
Oh! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt,
Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.

Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage.
Turned for a moment to Reason's dull page,
  Till Folly said,
  "Look here, sweet maid!"--
The sight of his cap brought her back to herself;
  While Reason read
  His leaves of lead,
With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!
No,--no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap;
Had he that on, he her heart might entrap--
  "There it is,"
  Quoth Folly, "old quiz!"
(Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said,)
  "Under the sun
  There's no such fun,
As Reason with my cap and bells on his head!"
"Reason with my cap and bells on his head!"

But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore,
That Beauty now liked him still less than before;
  While Folly took
  Old Reason's book,
And twisted the leaves in a cap of such _ton_,
  That Beauty vowed
  (Tho' not aloud),
She liked him still better in that than his own,
Yes,--liked him still better in that than his own.

FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE!

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Fare thee well, thou lovely one!
  Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
  Love's sweet life is o'er.
Thy words, what e'er their flattering spell,
  Could scarce have thus deceived;
But eyes that acted truth so well
  Were sure to be believed.
Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!
  Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
  Love's sweet life is o'er.

Yet those eyes look constant still,
  True as stars they keep their light;
Still those cheeks their pledge fulfil
  Of blushing always bright.
'Tis only on thy changeful heart
  The blame of falsehood lies;
Love lives in every other part,
  But there, alas! he dies.
Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!
  Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
  Love's sweet life is o'er.

DOST THOU REMEMBER.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Dost thou remember that place so lonely,
A place for lovers and lovers only,
 Where first I told thee all my secret sighs?
When, as the moonbeam that trembled o'er thee
Illumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee,
  And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes?
Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart,
Love bound us--never, never more to part!

And when I called thee by names the dearest[1]
That love could fancy, the fondest, nearest,--
  "My life, my only life!" among the rest;
In those sweet accents that still enthral me,
Thou saidst, "Ah!" wherefore thy life thus call me?
  "Thy soul, thy soul's the name I love best;
"For life soon passes,--but how blest to be
"That Soul which never, never parts from thee!"

[1] The thought in this verse is borrowed from the original Portuguese
words.

OH, COME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT SETS.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

Oh, come to me when daylight sets;
  Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
  O'er the moonlight sea.
When Mirth's awake, and Love begins,
  Beneath that glancing ray,
With sound of lutes and mandolins,
  To steal young hearts away.
Then, come to me when daylight sets;
  Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
  O'er the moonlight sea.

Oh, then's the hour for those who love,
  Sweet, like thee and me;
When all's so calm below, above,
  In Heaven and o'er the sea.
When maiden's sing sweet barcarolles,
  And Echo sings again
So sweet, that all with ears and souls
  Should love and listen then.
So, come to me when daylight sets;
  Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
  O'er the moonlight sea.

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

(SCOTCH AIR.)

Oft in the stilly night,
  Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
  Of other days around me;
    The smiles, the tears,
    Of boyhood's years,
  The words of love then spoken;
    The eyes that shone,
    Now dimmed and gone,
  The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
  Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
  Of other days around me.

When I remember all
  The friends, so linked together,
I've seen around me fall,
  Like leaves in wintry weather;
    I feel like one,
    Who treads alone,
  Some banquet-hall deserted,
    Whose lights are fled,
    Whose garlands dead,
  And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
  Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
  Of other days around me.

HARK! THE VESPER HYMN IS STEALING.

(RUSSIAN AIR.)

Hark! the vesper hymn is stealing
  O'er the waters soft and clear;
Nearer yet and nearer pealing,
  And now bursts upon the ear:
    Jubilate, Amen.
Farther now, now farther stealing
  Soft it fades upon the ear:
    Jubilate, Amen.

Now, like moonlight waves retreating
  To the shore it dies along;
Now, like angry surges meeting,
  Breaks the mingled tide of song
    Jubilate, Amen.
Hush! again, like waves, retreating
  To the shore, it dies along:
     Jubilate, Amen.

LOVE AND HOPE.

(SWISS AIR.)

At morn, beside yon summer sea,
  Young Hope and Love reclined;
But scarce had noon-tide come, when he
Into his bark leapt smilingly,
  And left poor Hope behind.

"I go," said Love, "to sail awhile
  "Across this sunny main;"
And then so sweet, his parting smile,
That Hope, who never dreamt of guile,
  Believed he'd come again.

She lingered there till evening's beam
  Along the waters lay;
And o'er the sands, in thoughtful dream,
Oft traced his name, which still the stream
  As often washed away.

At length a sail appears in sight,
  And toward the maiden moves!
'Tis Wealth that comes, and gay and bright,
His golden bark reflects the light,
  But ah! it is not Love's.

Another sail--'twas Friendship showed
  Her night-lamp o'er the sea;
And calm the light that lamp bestowed;
But Love had lights that warmer glowed,
  And where, alas! was he?

Now fast around the sea and shore
  Night threw her darkling chain;
The sunny sails were seen no more,
Hope's morning dreams of bliss were o'er--
  Love never came again!

THERE COMES A TIME.

(GERMAN AIR.)

There comes a time, a dreary time,
  To him whose heart hath flown
O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime,
  And made each flow its own.
'Tis when his soul must first renounce
  Those dreams so bright, so fond;
Oh! then's the time to die at once.
  For life has naught beyond.

When sets the sun on Afric's shore,
  That instant all is night;
And so should life at once be o'er.
  When Love withdraws his light;--
Nor, like our northern day, gleam on
  Thro' twilight's dim delay,
The cold remains of lustre gone,
  Of fire long past away.

MY HARP HAS ONE UNCHANGING THEME.

(SWEDISH AIR.)

My harp has one unchanging theme,
  One strain that still comes o'er
Its languid chord, as 'twere a dream
  Of joy that's now no more.
In vain I try, with livelier air,
  To wake the breathing string;
That voice of other times is there,
  And saddens all I sing.

Breathe on, breathe on, thou languid strain,
  Henceforth be all my own;
Tho' thou art oft so full of pain
  Few hearts can bear thy tone.
Yet oft thou'rt sweet, as if the sigh,
  The breath that Pleasure's wings
Gave out, when last they wantoned by.
  Were still upon thy strings.

OH, NO--NOT EVEN WHEN FIRST WE LOVED.

(CASHMERIAN AIR.)

Oh, no--not even when first we loved,
  Wert thou as dear as now thou art;
Thy beauty then my senses moved,
  But now thy virtues bind my heart.
What was but Passion's sigh before,
  Has since been turned to Reason's vow;
And, though I then might love thee _more_,
  Trust me, I love thee _better_ now.

Altho' my heart in earlier youth
  Might kindle with more wild desire,
Believe me, it has gained in truth
  Much more than it has lost in fire.
The flame now warms my inmost core,
  That then but sparkled o'er my brow,
And, though I seemed to love thee more,
  Yet, oh, I love thee better now.

PEACE BE AROUND THEE.

(SCOTCH AIR.)

Peace be around thee, wherever thou rov'st;
  May life be for thee one summer's day,
And all that thou wishest and all that thou lov'st
  Come smiling around thy sunny way!
If sorrow e'er this calm should break,
  May even thy tears pass off so lightly,
Like spring-showers, they'll only make
  The smiles, that follow shine more brightly.

May Time who sheds his blight o'er all
  And daily dooms some joy to death
O'er thee let years so gently fall,
  They shall not crush one flower beneath.
As half in shade and half in sun
  This world along its path advances.
May that side the sun's upon
  Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!

COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS.

(FRENCH AIR.)

While I touch the string,
  Wreathe my brows with laurel,
For the tale I sing
  Has, for once, a moral.
Common Sense, one night,
  Tho' not used to gambols,
Went out by moonlight,
  With Genius, on his rambles.
    While I touch the string, etc.

Common Sense went on,
  Many wise things saying;
While the light that shone
  Soon set Genius straying.
_One_ his eye ne'er raised
  From the path before him;
T'_other_ idly gazed
  On each night-cloud o'er him.
    While I touch the string, etc.

So they came, at last,
  To a shady river;
Common Sense soon past,
  Safe, as he doth ever;
While the boy, whose look
  Was in Heaven that minute.
Never saw the brook,
  But tumbled headlong in it!
    While I touch the string, etc.

How the Wise One smiled,
  When safe o'er the torrent,
At that youth, so wild,
  Dripping from the current!
Sense went home to bed;
  Genius, left to shiver
On the bank, 'tis said,
  Died of that cold river!
    While I touch the string, etc.

THEN, FARE THEE WELL.

(OLD ENGLISH AIR.)

Then, fare thee well, my own dear love,
  This world has now for us
No greater grief, no pain above
  The pain of parting thus,
      Dear love!
  The pain of parting thus.

Had we but known, since first we met,
  Some few short hours of bliss,
We might, in numbering them, forget
  The deep, deep pain of this,
      Dear love!
  The deep, deep pain of this.

But no, alas, we've never seen
  One glimpse of pleasure's ray,
But still there came some cloud between,
  And chased it all away,
      Dear love!
  And chased it all away.

Yet, even could those sad moments last,
  Far dearer to my heart
Were hours of grief, together past,
  Than years of mirth apart,
      Dear love!
  Than years of mirth apart.

Farewell! our hope was born in fears,
  And nurst mid vain regrets:
Like winter suns, it rose in tears,
  Like them in tears it sets,
      Dear love!
  Like them in tears it sets.

GAYLY SOUNDS THE CASTANET.

(MALTESE AIR.)

Gayly sounds the castanet,
  Beating time to bounding feet,
When, after daylight's golden set,
  Maids and youths by moonlight meet.
Oh, then, how sweet to move
 Thro' all that maze of mirth,
Led by light from eyes we love
  Beyond all eyes on earth.

Then, the joyous banquet spread
  On the cool and fragrant ground,
With heaven's bright sparklers overhead,
  And still brighter sparkling round.
Oh, then, how sweet to say
  Into some loved one's ear,
Thoughts reserved thro' many a day
  To be thus whispered here.

When the dance and feast are done,
  Arm in arm as home we stray,
How sweet to see the dawning sun
  O'er her cheek's warm blushes play!
Then, too, the farewell kiss--
  The words, whose parting tone
Lingers still in dreams of bliss,
  That haunt young hearts alone.

LOVE IS A HUNTER-BOY.

(LANGUEDOCIAN AIR.)

Love is a hunter-boy,
  Who, makes young hearts his prey,
And in his nets of joy
  Ensnares them night and day.
In vain concealed they lie--
  Love tracks them every where;
In vain aloft they fly--
  Love shoots them flying there.

But 'tis his joy most sweet,
  At early dawn to trace
The print of Beauty's feet,
  And give the trembler chase.
And if, thro' virgin snow,
  He tracks her footsteps fair,
How sweet for Love to know
  None went before him there.

COME, CHASE THAT STARTING TEAR AWAY.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Come, chase that starting tear away,
  Ere mine to meet it springs;
To-night, at least, to-night be gay,
  Whate'er to-morrow brings.
Like sunset gleams, that linger late
  When all is darkening fast,
Are hours like these we snatch from Fate--
  The brightest, and the last.
    Then, chase that starting tear, etc.

To gild the deepening gloom, if Heaven
  But one bright hour allow,
Oh, think that one bright hour is given,
  In all its splendor, now.
Let's live it out--then sink in night,
  Like waves that from the shore
One minute swell, are touched with light,
  Then lost for evermore!
    Come, chase that starting tear, etc.

JOYS OF YOUTH, HOW FLEETING!

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Whisperings, heard by wakeful maids,
  To whom the night-stars guide us;
Stolen walks thro' moonlight shades,
  With those we love beside us,
      Hearts beating,
      At meeting;
      Tears starting,
      At parting;
Oh, sweet youth, how soon it fades!
  Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting!

Wanderings far away from home,
  With life all new before us;
Greetings warm, when home we come,
  From hearts whose prayers watched o'er us.
      Tears starting,
      At parting;
      Hearts beating,
      At meeting;
Oh, sweet youth, how lost on some!
  To some, how bright and fleeting!

HEAR ME BUT ONCE.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Hear me but once, while o'er the grave,
  In which our Love lies cold and dead,
I count each flattering hope he gave
  Of joys now lost and charms now fled.

Who could have thought the smile he wore
  When first we met would fade away?
Or that a chill would e'er come o'er
  Those eyes so bright thro' many a day?
      Hear me but once, etc.

WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD

(SWEDISH AIR.)

When Love was a child, and went idling round,
  'Mong flowers the whole summer's day,
One morn in the valley a bower he found,
  So sweet, it allured him to stay.

O'erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair,
  A fountain ran darkly beneath;--
'Twas Pleasure had hung up the flowerets there;
  Love knew it, and jumped at the wreath.

But Love didn't know--and, at _his_ weak years,
  What urchin was likely to know?--
That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears
  The fountain that murmured below.

He caught at the wreath--but with too much haste,
  As boys when impatient will do--
It fell in those waters of briny taste,
  And the flowers were all wet through.

This garland he now wears night and day;
  And, tho' it all sunny appears
With Pleasure's own light, each leaf, they say,
  Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears.

SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO-DAY?

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Say, what shall be our sport today?
  There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air,
Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay
  For spirits like mine to dare!
'Tis like the returning bloom
  Of those days, alas, gone by,
When I loved, each hour--I scarce knew whom--
  And was blest--I scarce knew why.

Ay--those were days when life had wings,
  And flew, oh, flew so wild a height
That, like the lark which sunward springs,
  'Twas giddy with too much light.
And, tho' of some plumes bereft,
  With that sun, too, nearly set,
I've enough of light and wing still left
  For a few gay soarings yet.

BRIGHT BE THY DREAMS.

(WELSH AIR.)

Bright be thy dreams--may all thy weeping
Turn into smiles while thou art sleeping.
  May those by death or seas removed,
The friends, who in thy springtime knew thee,
  All thou hast ever prized or loved,
In dreams come smiling to thee!

There may the child, whose love lay deepest,
Dearest of all, come while thou sleepest;
  Still as she was--no charm forgot--
No lustre lost that life had given;
  Or, if changed, but changed to what
Thou'lt find her yet in Heaven!

GO, THEN--'TIS VAIN.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Go, then--'tis vain to hover
  Thus round a hope that's dead;
At length my dream is over;
  'Twas sweet--'twas false--'tis fled!
Farewell! since naught it moves thee,
  Such truth as mine to see--
Some one, who far less loves thee,
  Perhaps more blest will be.

Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness
  New life around me shed;
Farewell, false heart, whose lightness
  Now leaves me death instead.
Go, now, those charms surrender
  To some new lover's sigh--
One who, tho' far less tender,
  May be more blest than I.

THE CRYSTAL-HUNTERS.

(SWISS AIR.)

    O'er mountains bright
    With snow and light,
  We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
    While rocks and caves,
    And icy wares,
  Each instant echo to our song;
And, when we meet with store of gems,
We grudge not kings their diadems.
    O'er mountains bright
    With snow and light,
We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
    While grots and caves,
    And icy waves,
Each instant echo to our song.

Not half so oft the lover dreams
  Of sparkles from his lady's eyes,
As we of those refreshing gleams
  That tell where deep the crystal lies;
Tho', next to crystal, we too grant,
That ladies' eyes may most enchant.
    O'er mountains bright, etc.

Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose
  The golden sunset leaves its ray,
So like a gem the floweret glows,
  We hither bend our headlong way;
And, tho' we find no treasure there,
We bless the rose that shines so fair.
  O'er mountains bright
  With snow and light,
We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
  While rocks and caves,
  And icy waves,
Each instant echo to our song,

ROW GENTLY HERE.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

    Row gently here,
    My gondolier,
  So softly wake the tide,
    That not an ear.
    On earth, may hear,
  But hers to whom we glide.
Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well
   As starry eyes to see,
Oh, think what tales 'twould have to tell
   Of wandering youths like me!

    Now rest thee here.
    My gondolier;
  Hush, hush, for up I go,
    To climb yon light
    Balcony's height,
  While thou keep'st watch below.
Ah! did we take for Heaven above
   But half such pains as we
Take, day and night, for woman's love,
   What' Angels we should be.

OH, DAYS OF YOUTH.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Oh, days of youth and joy, long clouded,
  Why thus for ever haunt my view?
When in the grave your light lay shrouded,
  Why did not Memory die there too?
Vainly doth hope her strain now sing me,
  Telling of joys that yet remain--
No, never more can this life bring me
  One joy that equals youth's sweet pain.

Dim lies the way to death before me,
  Cold winds of Time blow round my brow;
Sunshine of youth! that once fell o'er me,
  Where is your warmth, your glory now?
_'Tis_ not that then no pain could sting me;
  'Tis not that now no joys remain;
Oh, 'tis that life no more can bring me
  One joy so sweet as that worst pain.

WHEN FIRST THAT SMILE.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

When first that smile, like sunshine, blest my sight,
  Oh what a vision then came o'er me!
Long years of love, of calm and pure delight,
  Seemed in that smile to pass before me.
Ne'er did the peasant dream of summer skies,
  Of golden fruit and harvests springing,
With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes,
  And of the joy their light was bringing.

Where now are all those fondly-promised hours?
  Ah! woman's faith is like her brightness--
Fading as fast as rainbows or day-flowers,
  Or aught that's known for grace and lightness.
Short as the Persian's prayer, at close of day,
  Should be each vow of Love's repeating;
Quick let him worship Beauty's precious ray--
  Even while he kneels, that ray is fleeting!

PEACE TO THE SLUMBERERS!

(CATALONIAN AIR.)

Peace to the slumberers!
  They lie on the battle-plain.
With no shroud to cover them;
  The dew and the summer rain
Are all that weep over them.
      Peace to the slumberers!

Vain was their bravery!--
  The fallen oak lies where it lay,
Across the wintry river;
  But brave hearts, once swept away,
Are gone, alas! forever.
      Vain was their bravery!

Woe to the conqueror!
  Our limbs shall lie as cold as theirs
Of whom his sword bereft us.
  Ere we forget the deep arrears
Of vengeance they have left us!
      Woe to the conqueror!

WHEN THOU SHALT WANDER.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

When thou shalt wander by that sweet light
  We used to gaze on so many an eve,
When love was new and hope was bright,
  Ere I could doubt or thou deceive--
Oh, then, remembering how swift went by
Those hours of transport, even _thou_ may'st sigh.

Yes, proud one! even thy heart may own
  That love like ours was far too sweet
To be, like summer garments thrown
  Aside, when past the summer's heat;
And wish in vain to know again
Such days, such nights, as blest thee then.

WHO'LL BUY MY LOVE-KNOTS?

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Hymen, late, his love-knots selling,
Called at many a maiden's dwelling:
None could doubt, who saw or knew them,
Hymen's call was welcome to them.
  "Who'll buy my love-knots?
  "Who'll buy my love-knots?"
Soon as that sweet cry resounded
How his baskets were surrounded!

Maids, who now first dreamt of trying
These gay knots of Hymen's tying;
Dames, who long had sat to watch him
Passing by, but ne'er could catch him;--
  "Who'll buy my love-knots?
  "Who'll buy my love-knots?"--
All at that sweet cry assembled;
Some laughed, some blushed, and some trembled.

"Here are knots," said Hymen, taking
Some loose flowers, "of Love's own making;
"Here are gold ones--you may trust 'em"--
(These, of course, found ready custom).
  "Come, buy my love-knots!
  "Come, buy my love-knots!
"Some are labelled 'Knots to tie men--
"Love the maker--Bought of Hymen.'"

Scarce their bargains were completed,
When the nymphs all cried, "We're cheated!
"See these flowers--they're drooping sadly;
"This gold-knot, too, ties but badly--
  "Who'd buy such love-knots?
  "Who'd buy such love-knots?
"Even this tie, with Love's name round it--
"All a sham--He never bound it."

Love, who saw the whole proceeding,
Would have laughed, but for good breeding;
While Old Hymen, who was used to
Cries like that these dames gave loose to--
  "Take back our love-knots!
  "Take back our love-knots!"
Coolly said, "There's no returning
"Wares on Hymen's hands--Good morning!"

SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN.

(TO AN AIR SUNG AT ROME, ON CHRISTMAS EVE.)

See, the dawn from Heaven is breaking
  O'er our sight,
And Earth from sin awaking,
  Hails the light!
See those groups of angels, winging
  From the realms above,
On their brows, from Eden, bringing
  Wreaths of Hope and Love.

Hark, their hymns of glory pealing
  Thro' the air,
To mortal ears revealing
  Who lies there!
In that dwelling, dark and lowly,
  Sleeps the Heavenly Son,
He, whose home's above,--the Holy,
  Ever Holy One!

NETS AND CAGES.[1]

(SWEDISH AIR.)

Come, listen to my story, while
  Your needle task you ply:
At what I sing some maids will smile,
  While some, perhaps, may sigh.
Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames
  Such florid songs as ours,

Yet Truth sometimes, like eastern dames,
  Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
  Then listen, maids, come listen, while
    Your needle's task you ply;
  At what I sing there's some may smile,
    While some, perhaps, will sigh.

Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,
  Such nets had learned to frame,
That none, in all our vales and groves,
  E'er caught so much small game:
But gentle Sue, less given to roam,
  While Cloe's nets were taking
Such lots of Loves, sat still at home,
  One little Love-cage making.
    Come, listen, maids, etc.

Much Cloe laughed at Susan's task;
  But mark how things went on:
These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask
  Their name and age, were gone!
So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,
  That, tho' she charm'd into them
New game each hour, the youngest Love
  Was able to break thro' them.
    Come, listen, maids, etc.

Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought
  Of bars too strong to sever,
One Love with golden pinions caught.
  And caged him there for ever;
Instructing, thereby, all coquettes,
  Whate'er their looks or ages,
That, tho 'tis pleasant weaving Nets,
  'Tis wiser to make Cages.

Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile
  The task your fingers ply.--
May all who hear like Susan smile,
  And not, like Cloe, sigh!

[1] Suggested by the following remark of Swift's;--"The reason why so few
marriages are happy, is, because young ladies spend their time in making
nets, not in making cages."

WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

When thro' the Piazzetta
  Night breathes her cool air,
Then, dearest Ninetta,
  I'll come to thee there.
Beneath thy mask shrouded,
  I'll know thee afar,
As Love knows tho' clouded
  His own Evening Star.

In garb, then, resembling
  Some gay gondolier,
I'll whisper thee, trembling,
  "Our bark, love, is near:
"Now, now, while there hover
  "Those clouds o'er the moon,
"'Twill waft thee safe over
  "Yon silent Lagoon."

GO, NOW, AND DREAM.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Go, now, and dream o'er that joy in thy slumber--
Moments so sweet again ne'er shalt thou number.
Of Pain's bitter draught the flavor ne'er flies,
While Pleasure's scarce touches the lip ere it dies.
  Go, then, and dream, etc.

That moon, which hung o'er your parting, so splendid,
Often will shine again, bright as she then did--
But, never more will the beam she saw burn
In those happy eyes, at your meeting, return.
  Go, then, and dream, etc.

TAKE HENCE THE BOWL.

(NEAPOLITAN AIR.)

Take hence the bowl;--tho' beaming
  Brightly as bowl e'er shone,
Oh, it but sets me dreaming
  Of happy days now gone.
There, in its clear reflection,
  As in a wizard's glass,
Lost hopes and dead affection,
  Like shades, before me pass.

Each cup I drain brings hither
  Some scene of bliss gone by;--
Bright lips too bright to wither,
  Warm hearts too warm to die.
Till, as the dream comes o'er me
  Of those long vanished years,
Alas, the wine before me
  Seems turning all to tears!

FAREWELL, THERESA!

(VENETIAN AIR.)

Farewell, Theresa! yon cloud that over
  Heaven's pale night-star gathering we see,
Will scarce from that pure orb have past ere thy lover
Swift o'er the wide wave shall wander from thee.

Long, like that dim cloud, I've hung around thee,
  Darkening thy prospects, saddening thy brow;
With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee;
  Oh, think how changed, love, how changed art thou now!

But here I free thee: like one awaking
  From fearful slumber, thou break'st the spell;
'Tis over--the moon, too, her bondage is breaking--
Past are the dark clouds; Theresa, farewell!

HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS.

(SAVOYARD AIR.)

Oft, when the watching stars grow pale,
  And round me sleeps the moonlight scene,
To hear a flute through yonder vale
  I from my casement lean.
"Come, come, my love!" each note then seems to say,
"Oh, come, my love! the night wears fast away!"
  Never to mortal ear
    Could words, tho' warm they be,
  Speak Passion's language half so clear
    As do those notes to me!

Then quick my own light lute I seek,
  And strike the chords with loudest swell;
And, tho' they naught to others speak,
  _He_ knows their language well.
"I come, my love!" each note then seems to say,
"I come, my love!--thine, thine till break of day."
  Oh, weak the power of words,
    The hues of painting dim
  Compared to what those simple chords
    Then say and paint to him!

WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE.

(GERMAN AIR.)

  When the first summer bee
    O'er the young rose shall hover,
  Then, like that gay rover,
    I'll come to thee.
He to flowers, I to lips, full of sweets to the brim--
What a meeting, what a meeting for me and for him!
  When the first summer bee, etc.

  Then, to every bright tree
    In the garden he'll wander;
    While I, oh, much fonder,
      Will stay with thee.
In search of new sweetness thro' thousands he'll run,
While I find the sweetness of thousands in one.
  Then, to every bright tree, etc.

THO' 'TIS ALL BUT A DREAM.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Tho' 'tis all but a dream at the best,
  And still, when happiest, soonest o'er,
Yet, even in a dream, to be blest
  Is so sweet, that I ask for no more.
    The bosom that opes
    With earliest hopes,
  The soonest finds those hopes untrue:
    As flowers that first
    In spring-time burst
  The earliest wither too!
    Ay--'tis all but a dream, etc.

Tho' by friendship we oft are deceived,
  And find love's sunshine soon o'ercast,
Yet friendship will still be believed.
  And love trusted on to the last.
    The web 'mong the leaves
    The spider weaves
Is like the charm Hope hangs o'er men;
    Tho' often she sees
    'Tis broke by the breeze,
She spins the bright tissue again.
    Ay--'tis all but a dream, etc.

WHEN THE WINE-CUP IS SMILING.

(ITALIAN AIR.)

When the wine-cup is smiling before us,
  And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boy, true,
Then the sky of this life opens o'er us,
  And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue.
Talk of Adam in Eden reclining,
  We are better, far better off thus, boy, thus;
For _him_ but _two_ bright eyes were shining--
  See, what numbers are sparkling for us!

When on _one_ side the grape-juice is dancing,
  While on t'other a blue eye beams, boy, beams,
'Tis enough, 'twixt the wine and the glancing,
  To disturb even a saint from his dreams.
Yet, tho' life like a river is flowing,
  I care not how fast it goes on, boy, on,
So the grape on its bank is still growing,
  And Love lights the waves as they run.

WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR SHAME?

(NEAPOLITAN AIR.)

Where shall we bury our shame?
  Where, in what desolate place,
Hide the last wreck of a name
  Broken and stained by disgrace?
Death may dissever the chain,
  Oppression will cease when we're gone;
But the dishonor, the stain,
  Die as we may, will live on.

Was it for this we sent out
  Liberty's cry from our shore?
Was it for this that her shout
  Thrilled to the world's very core?
Thus to live cowards and slaves!--
  Oh, ye free hearts that lie dead,
Do you not, even in your graves,
  Shudder, as o'er you we tread?

NE'ER TALK OF WISDOM'S GLOOMY SCHOOLS.

(MAHRATTA AIR.)

Ne'er talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools;
  Give me the sage who's able
To draw his moral thoughts and rules
  From the study of the table;--
Who learns how lightly, fleetly pass
  This world and all that's in it.
From the bumper that but crowns his glass,
  And is gone again next minute!

The diamond sleeps within the mine,
  The pearl beneath the water;
While Truth, more precious, dwells in wine.
  The grape's own rosy daughter.
And none can prize her charms like him,
  Oh, none like him obtain her,
Who thus can, like Leander, swim
  Thro' sparkling floods to gain her!

HERE SLEEPS THE BARD.

(HIGHLAND AIR.)

Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well
All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell;
Whether its music rolled like torrents near.
Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear.
Sleep, sleep, mute bard; alike unheeded now
The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow;--
That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay;
That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies away!

DO NOT SAY THAT LIFE IS WANING.

Do not say that life is waning,
  Or that hope's sweet day is set;
While I've thee and love remaining,
  Life is in the horizon yet.

Do not think those charms are flying,
  Tho' thy roses fade and fall;
Beauty hath a grace undying,
  Which in thee survives them all.

Not for charms, the newest, brightest,
  That on other cheeks may shine,
Would I change the least, the slightest.
  That is lingering now o'er thine.

THE GAZELLE.

Dost thou not hear the silver bell,
  Thro' yonder lime-trees ringing?
'Tis my lady's light gazelle;
  To me her love thoughts bringing,--
All the while that silver bell
  Around his dark neck ringing.

See, in his mouth he bears a wreath,
  My love hath kist in tying;
Oh, what tender thoughts beneath
  Those silent flowers are lying,--
Hid within the mystic wreath,
  My love hath kist in trying!

Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee,
  And joy to her, the fairest.
Who thus hath breathed her soul to me.
  In every leaf thou bearest;
Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee,
  And joy to her the fairest!

Hail ye living, speaking flowers,
  That breathe of her who bound ye;
Oh, 'twas not in fields, or bowers;
  'Twas on her lips, she found ye;--
Yes, ye blushing, speaking flowers,
  'Twas on her lips she found ye.

NO--LEAVE MY HEART TO REST.

No--leave my heart to rest, if rest it may,
When youth, and love, and hope, have past away.
Couldst thou, when summer hours are fled,
To some poor leaf that's fallen and dead,
Bring back the hue it wore, the scent it shed?
No--leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,
When youth, and love, and hope, have past away.

Oh, had I met thee then, when life was bright,
Thy smile might still have fed its tranquil light;
But now thou comest like sunny skies,
Too late to cheer the seaman's eyes,
When wrecked and lost his bark before him lies!
No--leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,
Since youth, and love, and hope have past away.

WHERE ARE THE VISIONS.

"Where are the visions that round me once hovered,
  "Forms that shed grace from their shadows alone;
"Looks fresh as light from a star just discovered,
  "And voices that Music might take for her own?"
Time, while I spoke, with his wings resting o'er me,
  Heard me say, "Where are those visions, oh where?"
And pointing his wand to the sunset before me,
  Said, with a voice like the hollow wind, "There."

Fondly I looked, when the wizard had spoken,
  And there, mid the dim-shining ruins of day,
Saw, by their light, like a talisman broken,
  The last golden fragments of hope melt away.

WIND THY HORN, MY HUNTER BOY.

Wind thy horn, my hunter boy,
  And leave thy lute's inglorious sighs;
Hunting is the hero's joy,
  Till war his nobler game supplies.
Hark! the hound-bells ringing sweet,
While hunters shout and the, woods repeat,
                 Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!

Wind again thy cheerful horn,
  Till echo, faint with answering, dies:
Burn, bright torches, burn till morn,
  And lead us where the wild boar lies.
Hark! the cry, "He's found, he's found,"
While hill and valley our shouts resound.
                 Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!

OH, GUARD OUR AFFECTION.

Oh, guard our affection, nor e'er let it feel
The blight that this world o'er the warmest will steal:
While the faith of all round us is fading or past,
Let ours, ever green, keep its bloom to the last.

Far safer for Love 'tis to wake and to weep,
As he used in his prime, than go smiling to sleep;
For death on his slumber, cold death follows fast,
White the love that is wakeful lives on to the last.

And tho', as Time gathers his clouds o'er our head,
A shade somewhat darker o'er life they may spread,
Transparent, at least, be the shadow they cast,
So that Love's softened light may shine thro' to the last.

SLUMBER, OH SLUMBER.

"Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st
"My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st."
  Thus sung I to a maiden,
    Who slept one summer's day,
  And, like a flower overladen
    With too much sunshine, lay.
      Slumber, oh slumber, etc.

"Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks;
"If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks."
  Thus sing I, while, awaking,
    She murmurs words that seem
  As if her lips were taking
    Farewell of some sweet dream.
      Breathe not, oh breathe not, etc.

BRING THE BRIGHT GARLANDS HITHER.

Bring the bright garlands hither,
  Ere yet a leaf is dying;
If so soon they must wither.
  Ours be their last sweet sighing.
Hark, that low dismal chime!
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, bring beauty, bring roses,
  Bring all that yet is ours;
Let life's day, as it closes,
  Shine to the last thro' flowers.

Haste, ere the bowl's declining,
  Drink of it now or never;
Now, while Beauty is shining,
  Love, or she's lost for ever.
Hark! again that dull chime,
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, if life be a torrent,
  Down to oblivion going,
Like this cup be its current,
  Bright to the last drop flowing!

IF IN LOVING, SINGING.

If in loving, singing, night and day
We could trifle merrily life away,
Like atoms dancing in the beam,
Like day-flies skimming o'er the stream,
Or summer blossoms, born to sigh
Their sweetness out, and die--
How brilliant, thoughtless, side by side,
Thou and I could make our minutes glide!
No atoms ever glanced so bright,
No day-flies ever danced so light,
Nor summer blossoms mixt their sigh,
So close, as thou and I!

THOU LOVEST NO MORE.

Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken
  Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er;
Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken,
  Thou lovest no more--thou lovest no more.

Tho' kindly still those eyes behold me,
  The smile is gone, which once they wore;
Tho' fondly still those arms enfold me,
  'Tis not the same--thou lovest no more.

Too long my dream of bliss believing,
  I've thought thee all thou wert before;
But now--alas! there's no deceiving,
  'Tis all too plain, thou lovest no more.

Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken,
  As lost affection's life restore,
Give peace to her that is forsaken,
  Or bring back him who loves no more.

WHEN ABROAD IN THE WORLD.

When abroad in the world thou appearest.
  And the young and the lovely are there,
To my heart while of all thou'rt the dearest.
  To my eyes thou'rt of all the most fair.
    They pass, one by one,
      Like waves of the sea,
    That say to the Sun,
      "See, how fair we can be."
  But where's the light like thine,
  In sun or shade to shine?
No--no, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
      Nothing like thee.

Oft, of old, without farewell or warning,
  Beauty's self used to steal from the skies;
Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning,
  And post down to earth in disguise;
    But, no matter what shroud
      Around her might be,
    Men peeped through the cloud,
      And whispered, "'Tis She."
  So thou, where thousands are,
  Shinest forth the only star,--
Yes, yes, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
      Nothing like thee.

KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE.

Keep those eyes still purely mine,
  Tho' far off I be:
When on others most they shine,
  Then think they're turned on me.

Should those lips as now respond
  To sweet minstrelsy,
When their accents seem most fond,
  Then think they're breathed for me.

Make what hearts thou wilt thy own,
  If when all on thee
Fix their charmed thoughts alone,
  Thou think'st the while on me.

HOPE COMES AGAIN.

Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger,
  Once more she sings me her flattering strain;
But hush, gentle syren--for, ah, there's less danger
  In still suffering on, than in hoping again.

Long, long, in sorrow, too deep for repining,
  Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain:
And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining
  O'er eyelids long darkened, would bring me but pain.

Fly then, ye visions, that Hope would shed o'er me;
  Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest
Now lies not in dreaming of bliss that's before me.
  But, ah--in forgetting how once I was blest.

O SAY, THOU BEST AND BRIGHTEST.

O say, thou best and brightest,
  My first love and my last.
When he, whom now thou slightest,
  From life's dark scene hath past,
Will kinder thoughts then move thee?
  Will pity wake one thrill
For him who lived to love thee,
  And dying loved thee still?

If when, that hour recalling
  From which he dates his woes,
Thou feel'st a tear-drop falling,
  Ah, blush not while it flows;
But, all the past forgiving,
  Bend gently o'er his shrine,
And say, "This heart, when living,
  "With all its faults, was mine."

WHEN NIGHT BRINGS THE HOUR.

When night brings the hour
  Of starlight and joy,
There comes to my bower
  A fairy-winged boy;
With eyes so bright,
  So full of wild arts,
Like nets of light,
  To tangle young hearts;
With lips, in whose keeping
  Love's secret may dwell,
Like Zephyr asleep in
  Some rosy sea-shell.
Guess who he is,
  Name but his name,
And his best kiss
  For reward you may claim.

Where'er o'er the ground
  He prints his light feet.
The flowers there are found
  Most shining and sweet:
His looks, as soft
  As lightning in May,
Tho' dangerous oft,
  Ne'er wound but in play:
And oh, when his wings
  Have brushed o'er my lyre,
You'd fancy its strings
  Were turning to fire.
Guess who he is,
  Name but his name,
And his best kiss
  For reward you may claim.

LIKE ONE WHO, DOOMED.

Like one who, doomed o'er distant seas
  His weary path to measure,
When home at length, with favoring breeze,
  He brings the far-sought treasure;

His ship, in sight of shore, goes down,
  That shore to which he hasted;
And all the wealth he thought his own
  Is o'er the waters wasted!

Like him, this heart, thro' many a track
  Of toil and sorrow straying,
One hope alone brought fondly back,
  Its toil and grief repaying.

Like him, alas, I see that ray
  Of hope before me perish,
And one dark minute sweep away
  What years were given to cherish.

FEAR NOT THAT, WHILE AROUND THEE.

Fear not that, while around thee
  Life's varied blessings pour,
One sigh of hers shall wound thee,
  Whose smile thou seek'st no more.
No, dead and cold for ever
  Let our past love remain;
Once gone, its spirit never
  Shall haunt thy rest again.

May the new ties that bind thee
  Far sweeter, happier prove,
Nor e'er of me remind thee,
  But by their truth and love.
Think how, asleep or waking,
  Thy image haunts me yet;
But, how this heart is breaking
  For thy own peace forget.

WHEN LOVE IS KIND.

When Love is kind,
  Cheerful and free,
Love's sure to find
  Welcome from me.

But when Love brings
  Heartache or pang,
Tears, and such things--
  Love may go hang!

If Love can sigh
  For one alone,
Well pleased am I
  To be that one,

But should I see
  Love given to rove
To two or three,
  Then--good by Love!

Love must, in short,
  Keep fond and true,
Thro' good report,
  And evil too.

Else, here I swear,
  Young Love may go.
For aught I care--
  To Jericho.

THE GARLAND I SEND THEE.

The Garland I send thee was culled from those bowers
Where thou and I wandered in long vanished hours;
Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays,
But bears some remembrance of those happy days.

The roses were gathered by that garden gate,
Where our meetings, tho' early, seemed always too late;
Where lingering full oft thro' a summer-night's moon,
Our partings, tho' late, appeared always too soon.

The rest were all culled from the banks of that glade,
Where, watching the sunset, so often we've strayed,
And mourned, as the time went, that Love had no power
To bind in his chain even one happy hour.

HOW SHALL I WOO?

If I speak to thee in friendship's name,
  Thou think'st I speak too coldly;
If I mention Love's devoted flame,
  Thou say'st I speak too boldly.
Between these two unequal fires,
  Why doom me thus to hover?
I'm a friend, if such thy heart requires,
  If more thou seek'st, a lover.
Which shall it be? How shall I woo?
  Fair one, choose between the two.

Tho' the wings of Love will brightly play,
  When first he comes to woo thee,
There's a chance that he may fly away,
  As fast as he flies _to_ thee.
While Friendship, tho' on foot she come,
  No flights of fancy trying,
Will, therefore, oft be found at home,
  When Love abroad is flying.
Which shall it be? How shall I woo?
  Dear one, choose between the two.

If neither feeling suits thy heart
  Let's see, to please thee, whether
We may not learn some precious art
  To mix their charms together;
One feeling, still more sweet, to form
  From two so sweet already--
A friendship that like love is warm,
  A love like friendship steady.
Thus let it be, thus let me woo,
  Dearest, thus we'll join the two.

SPRING AND AUTUMN.

Every season hath its pleasures;
  Spring may boast her flowery prime,
Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures
  Brighten Autumn's soberer time.
So Life's year begins and closes;
  Days tho' shortening still can shine;
What tho' youth gave love and roses,
  Age still leaves us friends and wine.

Phillis, when she might have caught me,
  All the Spring looked coy and shy,
Yet herself in Autumn sought me,
  When the flowers were all gone by.
Ah, too late;--she found her lover
  Calm and free beneath his vine,
Drinking to the Spring-time over,
  In his best autumnal wine.

Thus may we, as years are flying,
  To their flight our pleasures suit,
Nor regret the blossoms dying,
  While we still may taste the fruit,
Oh, while days like this are ours,
  Where's the lip that dares repine?
Spring may take our loves and flowers,
  So Autumn leaves us friends and wine.

LOVE ALONE.

If thou wouldst have thy charms enchant our eyes,
First win our hearts, for there thy empire lies:
Beauty in vain would mount a heartless throne,
Her Right Divine is given by Love alone.

What would the rose with all her pride be worth,
Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?
Maidens, unloved, like flowers in darkness thrown,
Wait but that light which comes from Love alone.

Fair as thy charms in yonder glass appear,
Trust not their bloom, they'll fade from year to year:
Wouldst thou they still should shine as first they shone,
Go, fix thy mirror in Love's eyes alone.

SACRED SONGS

TO

EDWARD TUITE DALTON, ESQ.

THE FIRST NUMBER

OF

SACRED SONGS

IS INSCRIBED,

BY HIS SINCERE AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND,

THOMAS MOORE.

_Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne_,
      _May, 1816_

SACRED SONGS

THOU ART, O GOD.

(Air.--Unknown.)[1]

    "The day is thine, the night is also thine: thou hast prepared the
    light and the sun.

    "Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and
    winter."
    --_Psalm_ lxxiv. 16, 17.

Thou art, O God, the life and light
  Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
  Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
  And all things fair and bright are Thine!

When Day, with farewell beam, delays
  Among the opening clouds of Even,
And we can almost think we gaze
  Thro' golden vistas into Heaven--
Those hues, that make the Sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, LORD! are Thine.

When Night, with wings of starry gloom,
  O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
  Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes--
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, LORD! are Thine.

When youthful Spring around us breathes,
  Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the Summer wreaths
  Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.

[1] I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. It is sung to
the beautiful old words, "I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair."

THE BIRD, LET LOOSE.

(AIR.--BEETHOVEN.)

The bird, let loose in eastern skies,[1]
  When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
  Where idle warblers roam.
But high she shoots thro' air and light,
  Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
  Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, GOD, from every care
  And stain of passion free,
Aloft, thro' Virtue's purer air,
  To hold my course to Thee!
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
  My Soul, as home she springs;--

Thy Sunshine on her joyful way,
  Thy Freedom in her wings!

[1] The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in
order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is
destined.

FALLEN IS THY THRONE.

(AIR.--MARTINI.)

Fallen is thy Throne, oh Israel!
  Silence is o'er thy plains;
Thy dwellings all lie desolate,
  Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee
  On Etham's barren shore?
That fire from Heaven which led thee,
  Now lights thy path no more.

LORD! thou didst love Jerusalem--
  Once she was all thy own;
Her love thy fairest heritage,[1]
  Her power thy glory's throne.[2]
Till evil came, and blighted
  Thy long-loved olive-tree;[3]--
And Salem's shrines were lighted
  For other gods than Thee.

Then sunk the star of Solyma--
  Then past her glory's day,
Like heath that, in the wilderness,[4]
  The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers,
  Where once the mighty trod,
And sunk those guilty towers,
  While Baal reign'd as God.

"Go"--said the LORD--"Ye Conquerors!
  "Steep in her blood your swords,
"And raze to earth her battlements,[5]
  "For they are not the LORD'S.
"Till Zion's mournful daughter
  "O'er kindred bones shall tread,
"And Hinnom's vale of slaughter[6]
  "Shall hide but half her dead!"

[1] "I have left mine heritage; I have given the clearly beloved of my
soul into the hands of her enemies."--_Jeremiah_, xii. 7.

[2] "Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."--_Jer_. xiv. 21.

[3] "The LORD called by name a green olive-tree; fair, and of goodly
fruit," etc.--_Jer_. xi. 16.

[4] "For he shall be like the heath in the desert."--_Jer_. xvii, 6.

[5] "Take away her battlements; for they are not the LORD'S."--_Jer_. v.
10.

[6] "Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the LORD, that it shall no
more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, but the Valley
or Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet till there be no place."--
_Jer_. vii. 32.

WHO IS THE MAID?

ST. JEROME'S LOVE.

(AIR.--BEETHOVEN.)

Who is the Maid my spirit seeks,
  Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has _she_ Love's roses on her cheeks?
  Is _hers_ an eye of this world's light?
No--wan and sunk with midnight prayer
  Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if at times a light be there,
  Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect,
  From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly decked,
  As if themselves were things divine.
No--Heaven but faintly warms the breast
  That beats beneath a broidered veil;
And she who comes in glittering vest
  To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize
  And love, because its bloom is gone;
The glory in those sainted eyes
  Is all the grace _her_ brow puts on.
And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright,
  So touching as that form's decay,
Which, like the altar's trembling light,
  In holy lustre wastes away.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

This world is all a fleeting show,
  For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow--
  There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume,
  As fading hues of even;
And love and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb--
  There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
  From wave to wave we're driven,
And fancy's flash and reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way--
  There's nothing calm but Heaven!

OH THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

    "He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds,"
    --_Psalm_. cxlvii. 3.

Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
  How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
  We could not fly to Thee.
The friends who in our sunshine live,
  When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
  Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
  Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
  Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
  And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears
  Is dimmed and vanished too,
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
  Did not thy Wing of Love
Come, brightly wafting thro' the gloom
  Our Peace-branch from above?
Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright
  With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
  We never saw by day!

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

(AIR.--AVISON.)

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
  In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
  Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.
Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stained it;
  'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchained it,
  To water that Eden where first was its source.
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
  In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
  Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,[1]
  Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,
Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,
  And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow.
Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying
  From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown--
And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying,
  Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own.
Weep not for her--in her springtime she flew
  To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurled;
And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,
  Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

[1] This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the
fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel
Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne church, October 81, 1815, and
died of a fever in a few weeks after. The sound of her marriage-bells
seemed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. During her
last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter
than usual, and among them were some from the present collection,
(particularly, "There's nothing bright but Heaven,") which this very
interesting girl had often heard me sing during the summer.

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music dreams of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne;
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness, breaking thro'.

There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy Deity:

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy Love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

(AlR.--AVISON.)[1]

    "And Miriam, the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in
    her band; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with
    dances."
    --_Exod_. xv. 20.

Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
JEHOVAH has triumphed--his people are free.
Sing--for the pride of the Tyrant is broken,
  His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave--
How vain was their boast, for the LORD hath but spoken,
  And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea;
JEHOVAH has triumphed--his people are free.

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the LORD!
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword--
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story
  Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the LORD hath looked out from his pillar of glory,[2]
  And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea,
JEHOVAH has triumphed--his people are free!

[1] I have so much altered the character of this air, which is from the
beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned concertos, that, without this
acknowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognized.

[2] "And it came to pass, that, in the morning watch the LORD looked unto
the host of the Egyptians, through the pillar of fire and of the cloud,
and troubled the host of the Egyptians."--_Exod_. xiv. 24.

GO, LET ME WEEP.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Go, let me weep--there's bliss in tears,
When he who sheds them inly feels
Some lingering stain of early years
  Effaced by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth and never rise;
While tears that from repentance flow,
  In bright exhalement reach the skies.
    Go, let me weep.

Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew
More idly than the summer's wind,
And, while they past, a fragrance threw,
But left no trace of sweets behind.--
The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves
Is cold, is faint to those that swell
The heart where pure repentance grieves
  O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well.
    Leave me to sigh.

COME NOT, OH LORD.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

Come not, oh LORD, in the dread robe of splendor
  Thou worest on the Mount, in the day of thine ire;
Come veiled in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender,
  Which Mercy flings over thy features of fire!

LORD, thou rememberest the night, when thy Nation[1]
  Stood fronting her Foe by the red-rolling stream;
O'er Egypt thy pillar shed dark desolation,
  While Israel basked all the night in its beam.

So, when the dread clouds of anger enfold Thee,
  From us, in thy mercy, the dark side remove;
While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Thee,
  Oh, turn upon us the mild light of thy Love!

[1] "And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of Israel;
and it was a cloud and darkness to them, but it gave light by night to
these"--_Exod_. xiv. 20.

WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Were not the sinful Mary's tears
  An offering worthy Heaven,
When, o'er the faults of former years,
  She wept--and was forgiven?

When, bringing every balmy sweet
  Her day of luxury stored,
She o'er her Saviour's hallowed feet
  The precious odors poured;--
And wiped them with that golden hair,
  Where once the diamond shone;
Tho' now those gems of grief were there
  Which shine for GOD alone!

Were not those sweets, so humbly shed--
  That hair--those weeping eyes--
And the sunk heart, that inly bled--
  Heaven's noblest sacrifice?

Thou that hast slept in error's sleep,
  Oh, would'st thou wake in Heaven,
Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep,
  "Love much" and be forgiven![1]

[1] "Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much."--St.
Luke, vii.47.

AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

As down in the sunless retreats of the Ocean,
  Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,
  Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee,
    My God! silent to Thee--
    Pure, warm, silent, to Thee,

As still to the star of its worship, tho' clouded,
  The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea,
So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,
  The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee,
    My GOD! trembling to Thee--
    True, fond, trembling, to Thee.

BUT WHO SHALL SEE.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

But who shall see the glorious day
  When, throned on Zion's brow,
The LORD shall rend that veil away
  Which hides the nations now?[1]
When earth no more beneath the fear
  Of this rebuke shall lie;[2]
When pain shall cease, and every tear
  Be wiped from every eye.[3]

Then, Judah, thou no more shall mourn
  Beneath the heathen's chain;
Thy days of splendor shall return,
  And all be new again.[4]

The Fount of Life shall then be quaft
  In peace, by all who come;[5]
And every wind that blows shall waft
  Some long-lost exile home.

[1] "And he will destroy, in this mountain, the face of the covering cast
over all people, and the vail that is spread over all nations."--Isaiah,
xxv. 7.

[2] "The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the
earth."--Isaiah, xxv. 8.

[3] "And GOD shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; neither shall
there be any more pain."--Rev. xxi:4.

[4] "And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things
new."--Rev. xxi. 5.

[5] "And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."--Rev.
xxii. 17.

ALMIGHTY GOD!

CHORUS OF PRIESTS.

(AIR.--MOZART.)

Almighty GOD! when round thy shrine
The Palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine,[1]
(Emblem of Life's eternal ray,
And Love that "fadeth not away,")
We bless the flowers, expanded all,[2]
We bless the leaves that never fall,

And trembling say,--"In Eden thus
"The Tree of Life may flower for us!"
When round thy Cherubs--smiling calm,
Without their flames--we wreathe the Palm.
Oh God! we feel the emblem true--
Thy Mercy is eternal too,
Those Cherubs, with their smiling eyes,
That crown of Palm which never dies,
Are but the types of Thee above--
Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love!

[1] "The Scriptures having declared that the Temple of Jerusalem was a
type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that the Palms, which made
so conspicuous a figure in that structure, represented that Life and
Immortality which were brought to light by the Gospel."--"Observations on
the Palm, as a sacred Emblem," by W. Tighe.

[2] "And he carved all the walls of the house round about with carved
figures of cherubim, and palm-trees, and _open flowers_."--1 Kings,
VI. 29.

OH FAIR! OH PUREST!

SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.

(AIR.--MOORE)

Oh fair! oh purest! be thou the dove
That flies alone to some sunny grove,
And lives unseen, and bathes her wing,
All vestal white, in the limpid spring.
There, if the hovering hawk be near,
That limpid spring in its mirror clear
Reflects him ere he reach his prey
And warns the timorous bird away,
     Be thou this dove;
Fairest, purest, be thou this dove,

The sacred pages of God's own book
Shall be the spring, the eternal brook,
In whose holy mirror, night and day,
Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray;--
And should the foes of virtue dare,
With gloomy wing, to seek thee there,
Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie
Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly!
    Be thou that dove;
Fairest, purest, be thou that dove.

ANGEL OF CHARITY.

(AIR.--HANDEL)

Angel of Charity, who, from above,
  Comest to dwell a pilgrim here,
Thy voice is music, thy smile is love,
  And Pity's soul is in thy tear.
When on the shrine of God were laid
  First-fruits of all most good and fair,
That ever bloomed in Eden's shade,
  Thine was the holiest offering there.

Hope and her sister, Faith, were given
  But as our guides to yonder sky;
Soon as they reach the verge of heaven,
  There, lost in perfect bliss, they die.
But, long as Love, Almighty Love,
  Shall on his throne of thrones abide,
Thou, Charity, shalt dwell above,
  Smiling for ever by His side!

BEHOLD THE SUN.

(AIR.--LORD MORNINGTON.)

Behold the Sun, how bright
 From yonder East he springs,
As if the soul of life and light
 Were breathing from his wings.

So bright the Gospel broke
 Upon the souls of men;
So fresh the dreaming world awoke
 In Truth's full radiance then.

Before yon Sun arose,
 Stars clustered thro' the sky--
But oh how dim, how pale were those,
 To His one burning eye!

So Truth lent many a ray,
  To bless the Pagan's night--
But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they
  To Thy One glorious Light!

LORD, WHO SHALL BEAR THAT DAY.

(AIR.--DR. BOYCE.)

Lord, who shall bear that day, so dread, so splendid,
  When we shall see thy Angel hovering o'er
This sinful world with hand to heaven extended,
  And hear him swear by Thee that time's no more?[1]
When Earth shall feel thy fast consuming ray--
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

When thro' the world thy awful call hath sounded--
  "Wake, all ye Dead, to judgment wake, ye Dead!"
And from the clouds, by seraph eyes surrounded,
  The Saviour shall put forth his radiant head;[2]
While Earth and Heaven before Him pass away[3]--
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

When, with a glance, the Eternal Judge shall sever
  Earth's evil spirits from the pure and bright,
And say to _those_, "Depart from me for ever!"
  To _these_, "Come, dwell with me in endless light!"[4]
When each and all in silence take their way--
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

[1] And the angel which I saw stand upon the sea and upon the earth,
lifted up his hand to heaven, and swear by Him that liveth for ever and
ever...that there should be time no longer."--_Rev_. x. 5, 6.

[2] "They shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds of heaven--and all
the angels with him."--_Matt_. xxiv. 90, and xxv. 80.

[3] "From whose face the earth and the heaven fled away."--_Rev_. xx. ii.

[4] "And before Him shall be gathered all nations, and He shall separate
them one from another.

"Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of
my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you, etc.

"Then shall He say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye
cursed, etc.

"And these shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous
into life eternal."

--_Matt_ xxv. 32, _et seq_.

OH, TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

Oh, teach me to love Thee, to feel what thou art,
Till, filled with the one sacred image, my heart
  Shall all other passions disown;
Like some pure temple that shines apart,
  Reserved for Thy worship alone.

In joy and in sorrow, thro' praise and thro' blame,
Thus still let me, living and dying the same,
  In _Thy_ service bloom and decay--
Like some lone altar whose votive flame
  In holiness wasteth away.

Tho' born in this desert, and doomed by my birth
To pain and affliction, to darkness and dearth,
  On Thee let my spirit rely--
Like some rude dial, that, fixt on earth,
  Still looks for its light from the sky.

WEEP, CHILDREN OF ISRAEL.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Weep, weep for him, the Man of God--[1]
  In yonder vale he sunk to rest;
But none of earth can point the sod[2]
  That flowers above his sacred breast.
    Weep, children of Israel, weep!

His doctrine fell like Heaven's rain.[3]
  His words refreshed like Heaven's dew--
Oh, ne'er shall Israel see again
  A Chief, to GOD and her so true.
    Weep, children of Israel, weep!

Remember ye his parting gaze,
  His farewell song by Jordan's tide,
When, full of glory and of days,
  He saw the promised land--and died.[4]
    Weep, children of Israel, weep!

Yet died he not as men who sink,
  Before our eyes, to soulless clay;
But, changed to spirit, like a wink
  Of summer lightning, past away.[5]
    Weep, children of Israel, weep!

[1] "And the children of Israel wept for Moses in the plains of Moab."--
_Deut_. xxxiv, 8.

[2] "And, he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab...but no man
knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."--_Ibid_. ver. 6.

[3] "My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the
dew."--_Moses' Song_.

[4] "I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go
over thither."--_Deut_. xxxiv. 4.

[5] "As he was going to embrace Eleazer and Joshua, and was still
discoursing with them, a cloud stood over him on the sudden, and he
disappeared in a certain valley, although he wrote in the Holy Books that
he died, which was done out of fear, lest they should venture to say that,
because of his extraordinary virtue, he went to GOD."--_Josephus_,
book iv. chap. viii.

LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.

(AIR. BEETHOVEN.)

Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light--

Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er
The Spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touched his sacred lyre.
In silence lay the unbreathing wire;
But when he swept its chords along,
Even Angels stooped to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD,
Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord--
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!

COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

(AIR.--GERMAN.)

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,
  Come, at God's altar fervently kneel;
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish--
  Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,
  Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,
Here speaks the Comforter, in GOD'S name saying--
  "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us
  What charm for aching hearts _he_ can reveal,
Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us--
  "Earth has no sorrow that GOD cannot heal."

AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Awake, arise, thy light is come;[1]
  The nations, that before outshone thee,
Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb--
  The glory of the Lord is on thee!

Arise--the Gentiles to thy ray,
  From every nook of earth shall cluster;
And kings and princes haste to pay
  Their homage to thy rising lustre.[2]

Lift up thine eyes around, and see
  O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters,
Thy exiled sons return to thee,
  To thee return thy home-sick daughters.[3]

And camels rich, from Midians' tents,
  Shall lay their treasures down before thee;
And Saba bring her gold and scents,
  To fill thy air and sparkle o'er thee.[4]

See, who are these that, like a cloud,[5]
  Are gathering from all earth's dominions,
Like doves, long absent, when allowed
  Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions.

Surely the isles shall wait for me,[6]
  The ships of Tarshish round will hover,
To bring thy sons across the sea,
  And waft their gold and silver over.

And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace[7]--
  The fir, the pine, the palm victorious
Shall beautify our Holy Place,
  And make the ground I tread on glorious.

No more shall dischord haunt thy ways,[8]
  Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation;
But thou shalt call thy portal Praise,
  And thou shalt name thy walls Salvation.

The sun no more shall make thee bright,[9]
  Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee;
But God, Himself, shall be thy Light,
  And flash eternal glory thro' thee.

Thy sun shall never more go down;
  A ray from heaven itself descended
Shall light thy everlasting crown--
  Thy days of mourning all are ended.[10]

My own, elect, and righteous Land!
  The Branch, for ever green and vernal,
Which I have planted with this hand--
  Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.[11]

[1] "Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is
risen upon thee."--_Isaiah_, xl.

[2] "And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness
of thy rising."--_Isaiah_, xl.

[3] "Lift up thine eyes round about, and see; all they gather themselves
together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from afar, and thy
daughters shall be nursed at thy side."--_Isaiah_, lx.

[4] "The multitude of camels shall cover thee; the dromedaries of Midian
and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come; they shall bring gold and
incense."--_Ib_.

[5] "Who are these that fly as a cloud and as the doves to their
windows?"--_Ib_.

[6] "Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of Tarshish first,
to bring thy sons from far, their silver and their gold with
them."--_Ib_.

[7] "The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee; the fir-tree, the
pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary;
and I will make the place of my feet glorious."--_Ib_.

[8] "Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction
within thy borders; but thou shalt call thy walls, Salvation, and thy
gates, Praise.--_Isaiah_, lx.

[9] "Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness
shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an
everlasting light, and thy God thy glory."--_Ib_.

[10] "Thy sun shall no more go down...for the Lord shall be thine
everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be
ended."--_Ib_.

[11] "Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall inherit the land
for ever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands."--_Ib_.

THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.

(AIR.--CRESCENTINI.)

There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary
Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary--
  What may that Desert be?
'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come
Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their home.

There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes
The water he pants for but sparkles and flies--
  Who may that Pilgrim be?
'Tis Man, hapless Man, thro' this life tempted on
By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.

There is a bright Fountain, thro' that Desert stealing
To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing--
  What may that Fountain be?
'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground,
By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.

There is a fair Spirit whose wand hath the spell
To point where those waters in secrecy dwell--
  Who may that Spirit be?
'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that where'er
Her wand bends to worship the Truth must be there!

SINCE FIRST THY WORD.

(AIR.--NICHOLAS FREEMAN.)

Since first Thy Word awaked my heart,
Like new life dawning o'er me,
Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art,
  All light and love before me.
Naught else I feel, or hear or see--
  All bonds of earth I sever--
Thee, O God, and only Thee
  I live for, now and ever.

Like him whose fetters dropt away
  When light shone o'er his prison,[1]
My spirit, touched by Mercy's ray,
  Hath from her chains arisen.
And shall a soul Thou bidst be free,
  Return to bondage?--never!
Thee, O God, and only Thee
  I live for, now and ever.

[1] "And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined
in the prison...and his chains fell off from his hands."--_Acts_,
xii. 7.

HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE.

(AIR.--ROUSSEAU.)

Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling;
  Earth's weary children to repose;
While, round the couch of Nature falling,
  Gently the night's soft curtains close.
Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining,
  Numberless stars, thro' yonder dark,
Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining
  From out the veils that hid the Ark.

Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest,
  Thou who in silence throned above,
Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest
  Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love.
Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely,
  Our souls awhile from life withdrawn
May in their darkness stilly, purely,
  Like "sealed fountains," rest till dawn.

WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?

(AIR.--HASSE.)

Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted?
  Thro' what Elysium more bright
Than fancy or hope ever painted,
  Walk ye in glory and light?
Who the same kingdom inherits?
  Breathes there a soul that may dare
Look to that world of Spirits,
  Or hope to dwell with you there?

Sages! who even in exploring
  Nature thro' all her bright ways,
Went like the Seraphs adoring,
  And veiled your eyes in the blaze--
Martyrs! who left for our reaping
  Truths you had sown in your blood--
Sinners! whom, long years of weeping
  Chastened from evil to good--

Maidens! who like the young Crescent,
  Turning away your pale brows
From earth and the light of the Present,
  Looked to your Heavenly Spouse--
Say, thro' what region enchanted
  Walk ye in Heaven's sweet air?
Say, to what spirits 'tis granted,
  Bright, souls, to dwell with you there?

HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.

(AIR--ANONYMOUS.)

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing,
  Whose theme is in the skies--
Like morning larks that sweeter sing
  The nearer Heaven they rise,

Tho' love his magic lyre may tune,
  Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes,
Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon,
  Whose madness in their ode breathes.

How purer far the sacred lute,
  Round which Devotion ties
Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit,
  And palm that never dies.

Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be.,
  Most welcome to the hero's ears,
Alas, his chords of victory
  Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.

How far more sweet their numbers run,
  Who hymn like Saints above,
No victor but the Eternal One,
  No trophies but of Love!

GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT,

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Go forth to the Mount; bring the olive-branch home,[1]
And rejoice; for the day of our  freedom is come!
From that time,[2] when the moon upon Ajalon's vale,
  Looking motionless down,[3] saw the kings of the earth,
In the presence of God's mighty champion grow pale--
  Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth!
Go forth to the Mount--bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our freedom is come!

Bring myrtle and palm--bring the boughs of each tree
That's worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free.[4]
From that day when the footsteps of Israel shone
  With a light not their own, thro' the Jordan's deep tide,
Whose waters shrunk back as the ark glided on[5]--
  Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride!
Go forth to the Mount--bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

[1] And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in
Jerusalem, saying, "Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches,'!
etc.--_Neh_. viii. 15.

[2] "For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun unto that day had not the
children of Israel done so; and there was very great gladness."--
_Ib_. 17.

[3] "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon and thou Moon, in the valley of
Ajalon."--_Josh_. x. 12.

[4] "Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtle-branches, and
palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths."

--_Neh_. viii. 15.

[5] "And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood
firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed
over on dry ground."--_Josh_. iii. 17.

IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter,
  When the Spirit leaves this sphere.
Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her
  To those she long hath mourned for here?

Hearts from which 'twas death to sever.
  Eyes this world can ne'er restore,
There, as warm, as bright as ever,
  Shall meet us and be lost no more.

When wearily we wander, asking
  Of earth and heaven, where are they,
Beneath whose smile we once lay basking,
  Blest and thinking bliss would stay?

Hope still lifts her radiant finger
  Pointing to the eternal Home,
Upon whose portal yet they linger,
  Looking back for us to come.

Alas, alas--doth Hope deceive us?
  Shall friendship--love--shall all those ties
That bind a moment, and then leave us,
  Be found again where nothing dies?

Oh, if no other boon were given,
  To keep our hearts from wrong and stain,
Who would not try to win a Heaven
  Where all we love shall live again?

WAR AGAINST BABYLON.

(AIR.--NOVELLO.)

"War against Babylon!" shout we around,
  Be our banners through earth unfurled;
Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound--
  "War against Babylon!" shout thro' the world!
Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters,[1]
  Thy day of pride is ended now;
And the dark curse of Israel's daughters
  Breaks like a thundercloud over thy brow!
    War, war, war against Babylon!

Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,[2]
  Set the standard of God on high;
Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields.
  "Zion" our watchword, and "vengeance" our cry!
Woe! woe!--the time of thy visitation[3]
  Is come, proud land, thy doom is cast--
And the black surge of desolation
  Sweeps o'er thy guilty head, at last!
      War, war, war against Babylon!

[1] "Oh thou that dwellest upon many waters...thine end is
come."--_Jer_. li. 13.