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194

SONGS OF THE HAMLET.

THE WOUNDED YOUNG KNIGHT.

I

There came to the hamlet a gallant young knight,
He had lost his good steed, he was wounded in fight;
And torn was his banner, and broken his lance,
His features were bloodless, dejected his glance;
A cottager found him and pitied his plight,
And offer'd a home to the wounded young knight.

II

Oh! boldly youth's vigour may struggle with pain,
The banish'd rose bloom'd on his features again,
His eyes regain'd lustre, and fondly they smil'd
On the nurse of his sickness, the cottager's child.
And she never strove to conceal her delight,
As she rov'd by the side of the wounded young knight.

III

His war steed is found, and the soldier is gone.
Her cheek is as pallid as once was his own;
Her step is as feeble, her eyes are as dim,
He cheers not the maid, once so cheering to him:
He shines at the tourney, he triumphs in fight,
She in death breathes a pray'r for the wounded young knight.
195

THE DARK-EYED BRUNETTE.

I

Remember, at Florence, the dark-eyed Brunette,
With her song, and guitar, and her ringlets of jet,
How she danc'd to the measure of Italy's lay,
And changing it ever, now pensive, now gay.
Oh! rove where you will, you must never forget
The Florentine beauty, the dark-eyed Brunette.

II

When I build my love-bower I'll build it at home.
From England's fair daughters I wish not to roam;
For all that I've seen far away o'er the sea
Endears the pure rose of my country to me.
Yet still, t'were ingratitude, quite to forget
The Florentine beauty, the dark-eyed Brunette.

I LOVE THE VILLAGE CHURCH.

I

I love the village church,
With its ivy mantled towers;
And rustic forms around the porch,
At the Sabbath's holy hour;
The music of the bell,
O'er the pleasant valley stealing;
And the simple pray'r that breathes so well
The pure heart's fervent feeling.
196

II

I love the village green,
Where, after hours of labour,
At eve, the young and old are seen
With merry pipe and tabor.
The banquet is not spread
As it is in courtly places;
But Nature o'er the spot has shed
Her own peculiar graces.

THE HAPPY VALLEY.

I

Oh! after many roving years, how sweet it is to come
To the dwelling place of early youth, our first, our dearest home.
To turn away our weary eyes from proud ambition's towers;
And wander in the summer fields, among the trees and flowers.
Oh, after many roving years, &c.

II

But I am chang'd since last I gaz'd on yonder tranquil scene,
And sat beneath the old witch elm that shades the village green,
And watch'd my boat upon the brook, as 'twere a regal galley,
And sigh'd not for a joy on earth, beyond the happy valley.
Oh, after many roving years, &c.

III

I wish I could recall again that bright and blameless joy,
And summon to my weary heart the feelings of a boy.
But I look on scenes of past delight, without my wonted pleasure,
As a miser on the bed of death looks coldly on his treasure.
Yet after many roving years, &c
197

YOUR LOT IS FAR ABOVE ME.

I

Your lot is far above me,
I dare not be your bride;
To know that you have lov'd me
Will wound your father's pride.
Go, woo some high-born lady,
And he will bless your choice.
Alas! too long already,
I've listen'd to your voice.

II

Oh! may your grief be fleeting!
Go seek the halls of mirth,
Dread not a future meeting,
We ne'er shall meet on earth.
Though o'er love's passing vision
These tears of anguish flow,
Doubt not the stern decision
Of her who bids you go.

III

These tears are not intended
As lures to make you stay:
I wish they were not blended
With all you hear me say.
Go! would you ne'er had sought me
'Tis hard so young to die;
But 'twas your kindness taught me
To raise my hopes so high.
198

IT IS THE LAST MEETING.

I

It is the last meeting, I know it too well;
And near you to-morrow no more I shall dwell
Those sweet days are gone! 'Twas folly, I know,
I once would not let myself think they could go.
At night, when one day of enjoyment was past,
I could look to another as bright as the last.
My fate is decided, alone I shall dwell,
It is the last meeting, receive my farewell.

II

I blame not your going, the error was mine:
I suffered Love's fetters around me to twine;
At first they are feeble, and little we think
How soon Time will strengthen each delicate link.
I ought to have known that my wishes were vain,
That the world would recall its young truant again.
My fate is decided, alone I shall dwell,
It is the last meeting, receive my farewell.
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