Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

In this frigid planet
Dim Love's torch appears
Though fond hope will fan it,
Soon 'tis quenched in tears.
Would there were a star,
Where we could live together,
Far from earth—too far
For jealous eyes to peep;
Where Love, true as mine,
Unkindness ne'er should wither;
Where eyes, bright as thine,
Never more should weep.

II

View that star, just risen
O'er the tranquil sea;
If it were our prison,
Oh! how blest we'd be!
From that radiant home
I'd ne'er wish to wander;
Sorrow ne'er should come
To molest us there.
Though unfeeling men
Tear fond hearts asunder;
We would triumph then
O'er each earthly snare.

112

III

Some, with cold derision,
Lover's dreams condemn;
But my star-light vision
Ne'er was meant for them:
They who weep for one,
Loved in brighter hours;
They who sadly shun
Mirth—and song—and dance;
They, like me, will feel
When Life has lost its flowers;
'Tis no harm to steal

OPEN YOUR CASEMENT, MY DEAR.

A BALLAD,

[_]

(An original Air.—Composed by Master Balfe.)

I

Come open your casement, my dear,
And fearlessly gaze on the sea;
'Tis tranquil, and why should you fear
To venture upon it with me?
See light clouds are veiling the moon,
No eye your departure will note;
Come down from your chamber, and soon
I'll waft you away in my boat.

II

Thus sung a fond youth to his love,
Who was sleeping—(Love never should sleep,)
Her father was peeping above,
(Oh! fathers you never should peep:)—
To his daughter's balcony he brought
Her monkey in muslins array'd;
The youth was o'erjoy'd, for he thought
'Twas the form of his beautiful maid.

113

III

He gaz'd on the figure in white,
Whose nods gave new life to his hopes,
His heart throbb'd with love and delight
As he threw up the ladder of ropes;
His charmer hopp'd down it—and then
The happy delusion was o'er.—
Girls often meet monkey-like men,
But man ne'er wooed monkey before.

IV

From the window enjoying the joke,
Her Father feared danger no more,
And she by the bustle awoke,
Soon made her escape at the door:
“Come, come to your Rosa,” she said,
“Unless you prefer my baboon;
“And pray let your next serenade
“Take place at the full of the moon.”

MARY, THINK OF ME.

[_]

(An original Air.—Composed by Mr. Lee.)

I

When rays of summer beam o'er your bower,
When the fresh blossoms are upon the tree,
And when you walk at this lone hour,
Under the willows,—Mary, think of me.
With other youths, gaily you'll wander,
Yet when they breathe vows of love to thee,
You'll sigh for one whose love was fonder,
Yes, Mary, yes, then you'll think of me.

114

II

These faded blossoms once bloomed above me,
Often I met thee under their sweet shade,
When they were fresh you seem'd to love me,
I never thought love, like them, would fade.
But winter's gloom soon will be over,
These wither'd trees bright and green will be,
Then, Mary, then mourn for your lover,
Over my tomb, dear Mary, weep for me.

I'LL BE TRUE TO THEE.

[_]

(Swiss Air.—Arranged by Sir J. Stevenson.)

I

They tell thee to doubt me,
And think of me no more;
They say I have sported
With female hearts before:
But when you hear unkind ones speak,
With venomed tongue, and smiling cheek,
Repel them,
And tell them
I have been true to Thee.

II

They tell thee, the brightness
Of frost upon the tree,
Which melts in the sunshine,
Is true—compared with me:
But like two leaves, that on the stem
Remain, till winter withers them,
United,
'Till blighted,
Thus—I'll be true to Thee.

115

OH! HEAR MY SWEET GUITAR.

[_]

(Spanish Seguidillo.—Arranged by Mr. Horn.)

I

Oh! hear my sweet guitar;—
'Tis like that bird
We oft have heard,
Who all night long
Sings one fond song;—
Thus, Isabel, you are
My constant theme:
Then do not waste the bliss
Of such a night as this,
For clouds too soon
Will veil the moon,
Then calmly dream,
My Isabel.

II

My Isabel, that bird
Sings not alone;
His sweetest tone
Is echoed now,
From yonder bough:
Yes, there a song is heard
Which answers him:
But sad my song must be,
For 'till you answer me.
Though stars are bright,
To me their light
Seems cold and dim,
My Isabel.

116

THE LITTLE PET PLANT.

[_]

(An original Air.—Composed by Mr. Smith.)

I

A Florist a sweet little blossom espied,
Which bloom'd like its ancestors by the road side;
Its sweetness was simple, its colours were few,
Yet the blossom looked fair in the spot where it grew;
The Florist beheld it, and cried, “I'll enchant
“The botanical world with this sweet little plant;
“Its leaves shall be shelter'd, and carefully nursed,
“It shall charm all the world, tho' I met with it first
“Under a hedge!”

II

He carried it home to his hot-house with care,
And he said, “Tho' the rarest exotics are there,
“My little pet plant, when I've nourished its stem,
“In tint and in fragrance shall imitate them.
“Tho' none shall suspect from the road side it came,
“Roadum Sidum I'll call it, a beautiful name!
“While Botanists look thro' their glasses and view
“Its beauties, they'll never suspect that it grew
“Under a hedge!”

III

The little Pet Plant, when it shook off the dirt
Of its own native ditch, soon began to be pert,
And toss'd its small head, for perceiving that none
But Exotics were round it, it thought itself one.
As a wild flower, all would have owned it was fair
And prais'd it tho' gaudier blossoms were there;
But when it assumes hot-house airs we see through
The forc'd tint of its leaves, and suspect that it grew
“Under a hedge!”

117

MORAL.

In the bye ways of life, oh! how many there are,
Who, being born under some fortunate star,
Assisted by beauty or talent grow rich
And bloom in a hot-house instead of a ditch.
And whilst they disdain not their own simple stem,
The honours they grasp, may gain honour from them;
But when (like the Pet Plant) such people grow pert,
We soon trace them to their original dirt
“Under a hedge!”

THE QUEEN OF THE MAY.

[_]

(Scotch Air.—Arranged by Mr. Barton.)

I

Can that be the maiden, the Queen of the May,
I left in the village most fair and most gay;
Whose lovers surrounded her cowslip twin'd throne,
She laughed with them all but smil'd fondly on one.
That eye now so heavy, how bright was its glance,
That lingering footstep was first in the dance,
That brow so dejected made others rejoice,
And blithe was her accent and sweet was her voice.

II

And why is the maiden so chang'd since we met?
She lov'd him, she lost him, she cannot forget.
Can sad hearts dissemble the joy that is gone?
Can death's muffled bell echo life's silver tone?
The youth was permitted to follow her form,
To guide her in sunshine, and guard her in storm;
And daily she met him, and ne'er was reprov'd,
'Till her father's reproof came too late, for they lov'd.

118

III

The joy of his daughter a father may chill—
Affection once kindled obeys not his will;
The torrent once suffered to deluge the plain,
We cannot recal to its channel again:
Go, cold-hearted being, exult in your sway,
From hearts you have link'd, tear each fond tie away;
Exult 'till you view the dark dwelling of death,—
Then mourn o'er the victim who slumbers beneath.

REMEMBER ME.

I

Remember me when I am gone,
I still would claim the thoughts of one,
And Anna thou wilt ever be,
The one I wish to think of me.
When winds are fair, and sails are set,
I only ask one heart's regret;
And oh, how blest should I discern,
One welcome smile when I return.

II

I only ask where'er I rove,
A few dear friends, and one dear love;
My muse has fame enough if one,
For my sake listens to its tone.
In fields of war one potent charm,
Shall warm my heart, and nerve my arm;
In conquest I shall only need,
One cheering voice to praise the deed.

III

Enjoyment loses half its worth,
Till one is near to share my mirth;
And sorrow's pang is less severe,
If one consoling form is near,

119

Remember me when I am gone,
I still would claim the thoughts of one.
And, Anna, thou wilt ever be
The one I wish to think of me.

REMEMBER THEE.

[_]

Addressed to Miss Stephens on hearing her sing “Remember Me.”

I

Remember thee! can those who hear
That lovely voice forget its tone?
Remember thee! ah! can'st thou fear
Neglect from us, when thou art gone!
Must those who hear those notes be told
To think of thee with fond regret.
It seems as if you deemed us cold—
As if you thought we could forget!

II

In lonely hours, how oft a thought
Wakes half forgotten joys again;
And blissful feelings come unsought,
Though long we lured them back in vain.
Thus oft when thou art far away,
A voice less sweet—or some wild string
Will breathe of thee, and we shall say
“Oh! 'tis the song she used to sing.”

III

Farewell, farewell, if doomed to rove,
May'st thou behold unclouded skies;
Be still the joy of all who love
A thrilling voice, and laughing eyes.
May'st thou still meet with friends as warm
To tell thee how adored thou art;
Yet seem unconscious of the charm
Which makes thee rule in every heart.

120

WHY DO WE LOVE?

I often think each tottering form
That limps along in life's decline;
Once bore a heart as young—as warm
As full of idle thoughts, as mine.

And each has had his dream of joy,
His own unequall'd, pure romance;
Commencing when the blushing boy
First thrills at lovely woman's glance.

And each could tell his tale of youth,
And think its scenes of love evince
More passion, more unearthly truth
Than any tale before, or since.

Yes! they could tell of tender lays
At midnight penn'd in classic shades;
Of days—more bright than modern days,
And maids more fair than living maids.

Of whispers in a willing ear;
Of kisses on a blushing cheek;
Each kiss—each whisper, far too dear
For modern lips to give or speak.

Of prospects too untimely cross'd,
Of passion slighted, or betray'd;
Of kindred spirits early lost,
And buds that blossomed but to fade.

Of beaming eyes, and tresses gay—
Elastic form, and noble brow;
And charms that all have passed away,
And left them—what we see them now!

And is it so? Is human love
So very light, so frail a thing!
And must youth's brightest visions move
For ever on Time's restless wing!

121

Must all the eyes that still are bright,
And all the lips that talk of bliss,
And all the forms so fair to-night,
Hereafter—only come to this?

Ah yes! each path where lovers rove,
In shady groves, or on the shore;
If it can echo vows of love,
Hath echoed vows as fond before.

And other forms, as fair as these,
Have glided down yon verdant glen;
And other nymphs beneath the trees
Have heard the flattering words of men.

A strain as sweet as that which floats
Upon the breeze, o'er yonder wave,
By moonlight rose from other boats—
From lips—now silent as the grave.

Then what are love's best visions worth,
If we, at length, must yield them thus?
If all we value most on earth,
Ere long, must fade away from us!

If that one being, whom we take
From all the world, and still recur
To all she said, and for her sake
Feel far from joy, when far from her;

If that one form which we adore,
From youth to age—in bliss or pain,
Soon withers, and is seen no more;
Why do we love, if love be vain?

Oh! is it not because we love
(Far more than beauty's fleeting worth;)
The kindred soul which soars above
The fair, yet fading flow'rs of earth?

Because affection shuddering shrinks
From the cold dust left mouldering here,
And midst his tears the mourner thinks
Of joy beyond this troubled sphere?

122

Yes—if when beauty's dazzling mask
Is gone, no other charms remain;
Well may the heart desponding ask—
“Why do we love, if love be vain?”

But 'tis not so.—When we behold
Death's faded victim once so fair,
The eye is dim—The lip is cold—
But all we valued—lies not there!

TRUTH AND YOUNG ROMANCE.

[_]

(Air composed by Mr. Sinclair.)

I

Young Romance through roses straying
Saw old Truth trudge lamely on;
One in pleasure's light was playing,
The other sigh'd for pleasures gone.
Cries Romance, “Oh, rest a minute,
And discuss our views of earth:—
Yours may have most prudence in it,
But in mine is all the mirth!”

II

“Ah!” says Truth, “this world discloses
Nought but vain delusive wiles.
Thorns are under all your roses,
Sadness follows all your smiles.”
Cries Romance, “Perhaps I often
Colour life with tints too warm;
Yet my warmth a shade may soften,
While your coldness chills a charm.”

III

“What is love?” the sage then asks him—
“Love—in summer hours so sweet?
Wint'ry weather soon unmasks him,
And your idol proves a cheat!”

123

“Love!” the youth replies, “Oh, sever
Real love from vain deceits:
Constant love brings hours that never
Lose their sunshine, or their sweets.”

IV

“Friendship, too, you call a treasure,
But,” says Truth, “it is a tie
Loosely worn 'mid scenes of pleasure,
And when fortune frowns—thrown by.”
“Friendship,” he replies, “possesses
Worth which no dark change destroys;
Seeking, soothing our distresses,
Sharing, doubling all our joys.”

V

“Go,” says Truth, “'tis plain we never
Can such hostile thoughts combine;
Folly is your guide for ever,
While dull sense must still be mine.”
Cries the Boy—“Frown on, no matter,
Mortals love my merry glance!
E'en in Truth's own path they scatter
Roses snatch'd from young Romance.”

TOO MANY LOVES.

[_]

(Air composed by Mr. Horn.)

I

When a heart is contented with one little Love,
No follies, no pleasures, can tempt him to rove;
In storm, and in sunshine, that one Love will live,
Outweighing all else that the wide world can give.
But when one little heart flirts with too many loves,
Each Cupid a wild little wanderer proves;
His smile has no charm, his resentment no sting,
And his faith is more light than a Butterfly's wing.

124

II

When too many loves sport in Beauty's fair bowers,
They scatter the blossoms of too many flowers;
They revel 'mid roses all day—but they leave
No fragrance—no bloom to refresh them at eve:
But when beauty admits only one little guest,
He flies to one rose, never heeding the rest;
That one rose may wither—yet sweet to the last,
'Twill serve for his pillow when summer is past.

III

The frail bark of Folly may dance on the tide,
Adorn'd with the gay wreaths of pleasure and pride:
The first gloomy cloud drives her crew from the deck;
The helm is deserted—the vessel a wreck.
Yet I've seen a light boat which no storm could o'erwhelm;
There was one love on board who stood firm at the helm;
He smilingly guided her safe to the shore,
And Truth was inscribed on the banner she bore.

REPEAT AGAIN.

[_]

(Duet composed by Sir John Stevenson.)

I

Repeat again—repeat that song,
For feelings that have slumber'd long
Revive again;
The thoughtless smiles of thoughtless years
Dispel awhile the sighs, and tears
Of present pain:
Oh, what a host of pleaures gone
Come to our thoughts with each soft tone!
Departed friends seem smiling near,
As gay as when we used to hear
That merry strain!
“Such thoughts are as light as the foam of the sea,
Or bubbles that shine for a minute;
Though bubbles on water insipid may be,
Each wine bubble has spirit in it!”

125

II

Yes—'tis the song: but where, oh! where
Are those we loved—the young, the fair,
With hearts so light?
We view them, when from former years
Time's veil of shadows disappears,
And all is bright!
Yes, 'mid the gloom which fortune brings,
Some trifle thus gives memory wings;
A tune will waft us far away
To some departed happy day,
Or happy night!
“Such thoughts are as light as the foam of the sea,
Or bubbles that shine for a minute;
Though bubbles on water insipid may be,
Each wine bubble has spirit in it!”

WON'T YOU.

[_]

(Air composed by Mr. Ditchfield.)

I

Do you remember when you heard
My lips breathe love's first faltering word;
You do, Sweet—don't you?
When having wander'd all the day,
Link'd arm in arm, I dared to say,
“You'll love me—won't you?”

II

And when you blush'd, and could not speak,
I fondly kiss'd your glowing cheek;
Did that affront you?
Oh, surely not: your eye exprest
No wrath—but said, perhaps in jest,
“You'll love me—won't you?”

126

III

I'm sure my eyes replied, “I will;”
And you believe that promise still;
You do, Sweet—don't you?
Yes, yes! when age has made our eyes
Unfit for questions, or replies,
You'll love me—won't you?

MAY THY LOT IN LIFE BE HAPPY.

[_]

(Air arranged by Mr. Horn.)

I

May thy lot in life be happy, undisturbed by thoughts of me,
The God who shelters innocence, thy guard and guide will be;
Thy heart will lose the chilling sense of hopeless love at last,
And the sunshine of the future chase the shadows of the past.

II

I never wish to meet thee more, though I am still thy friend;
I never wish to meet thee more, since dearer ties must end;
With worldly smiles and worldly words, I could not pass thee by,
Nor turn from thee unfeelingly with cold averted eye.

III

I could not bear to see thee 'midst the thoughtless and the gay;
I could not bear to view thee deck'd in fashion's bright array;
And less could I endure to meet thee pensive and alone,
When through the trees the ev'ning breeze breathes forth its cheerless moan.

IV

For I have met thee 'midst the gay—and thought of none but thee;
And I have seen the bright array—when it was worn for me;
And often near the sunny waves I've wandered by thy side,
With joy—that pass'd away as fast as sunshine from the tide.

127

V

But cheerless is the summer! there is nothing happy now;
The daisy withers on the lawn, the blossom on the bough:
The boundless sea looks chillingly, like winter's waste of snow,
And it hath lost the soothing sound with which it used to flow.

VI

I never wish to meet thee more—yet think not I've been taught,
By smiling foes, to injure thee by one unworthy thought.
No:—blest with some beloved one, from care and sorrow free,
May thy lot in life be happy, undisturbed by thoughts of me.

TELL ME NO MORE.

[_]

(Air composed by Mr. Braham.)

I

Tell me no more that hearts less warm,
Feel not the sorrows felt by me;
Passing unmov'd by sun and storm
Over a tranquil sea:
Mine be the heart which feeling sways;
Tho' like the ocean's varied form;
Tranquil and bright in sunny days,
Ruffled in hours of storm.

II

Dark as a stream whose waters run
Under the earth in hidden caves,
Where the warm rays of summer's sun
Never illumed the waves:
Such is the calm of those who rove,
Link'd to no being truly dear,
While not a cheering ray of love
Brightens their cold career.

128

OH SAY NOT 'TWERE A KEENER BLOW.

[_]

(Air composed by Sir. H. Bishop.)

I

Oh say not 'twere a keener blow
To lose a child of riper years;
You do not feel a father's woe,
You cannot check a father's tears.
The girl who rears a sickly plant,
Or cherishes a wounded dove,
Will love them most, while most they want
The watchfulness of love.

II

Time must have chang'd that fair young brow,
And might have chang'd that spotless heart;
Years might have taught deceit—but now,
In love's confiding dawn—we part!
Ere pain or grief had sown decay,
My babe is cradled in the tomb:
Like some fair blossom, torn away
In all its purest bloom.

III

With thoughts of peril and of storm
We see a bark first touch the wave,
But distant seems the whirlwind's form,
As distant—as an infant's grave:
Though all is calm, the beauteous ship
Must brave the whirlwind's rudest breath;
Though all is calm, the infant's lip
Must meet the kiss of death.

129

THE LAST GREEN LEAF.

[_]

(Irish Air, “The Jug of Punch,” arranged by Mr. Horn.)

I

The last green leaf hangs lonely now,
Its summer friends have left the bough;
Yet, though they withered one by one,
The last—still flutters in the sun!
And so it is with us to-day,
The bowl is filled, we must be gay;
We sing old songs again, and yet
We've lost old friends since last we met!

II

But could some lost one now return,
And view us here, he would discern
Some lips that press the goblet's brim,
To hide the sigh that's breath'd for him.
We do not meet to banish thought:
Yet, though regrets will come unsought,
We will not waste in sighs of grief,
Life's ling'ring joy—the last green leaf.

THE DAUGHTER OF MEATH.

[_]

(A Tale founded on an Irish Tradition, to be found in Hollinshed's Chronicles.)

Turgesius, the chief of a turbulent band,
Came over from Norway and conquer'd the land:
Rebellion had smooth'd the invader's career,
The natives shrank from him, in hate, or in fear;
While Erin's proud spirit seem'd slumb'ring in peace,
In secret it panted for death—or release.

130

The tumult of battle was hush'd for awhile,—
Turgesius was monarch of Erin's fair isle;
The sword of the conquerer slept in its sheath,
His triumphs were honour'd with trophy and wreath;
The princes of Erin despair'd of relief,
And knelt to the lawless Norwegian chief.

His heart knew the charm of a woman's sweet smile,
But ne'er, till he came to this beautiful isle,
Did he know with what mild, yet resistless controul,
That sweet smile can conquer a conquerer's soul:
And oh! 'mid the sweet smiles most sure to enthral,
He soon met with one—he thought sweetest of all.

The brave Prince of Meath had a daughter as fair
As the pearls of Loch Negah, which encircled her hair;
The Tyrant beheld her, and cried, “She shall come
To reign as the Queen of my gay mountain home;
Ere sunset to-morrow hath crimson'd the sea,
Melachlin, send forth thy young daughter to me!”

Awhile paused the Prince—too indignant to speak,
There burn'd a reply in his glance—on his cheek:
But quickly that hurried expression was gone,
And calm was his manner, and mild was his tone.
He answered—“Ere sunset hath crimson'd the sea,
To-morrow—I'll send my young daughter to thee!”

“At sunset to-morrow your palace forsake,
With twenty young chiefs seek the isle on yon lake;
And there in its coolest and pleasantest shades,
My child shall await you with twenty fair maids:
Yes—bright as my armour the damsels shall be,
I send with my daughter, Turgesius, to thee.”

Turgesius return'd to his palace;—to him
The sports of that evening seem'd languid and dim;
And tediously long was the darkness of night,
And slowly the morning unfolded its light;
The sun seem'd to linger—as if it would be
An age ere his setting would crimson the sea.

131

At length came the moment—the King and his band
With rapture push'd their light boat from the land;
And bright shone the gems on their armour, and bright
Flash'd their fast-moving oars in the setting sun's light;
And long ere they landed, they saw through the trees,
The maidens' white garments that waved in the breeze.

More strong in the lake was the dash of each oar,
More swift the gay vessel flew on to the shore;
Its keel touch'd the pebbles—but over the surf
The youths in a moment had leap'd to the turf,
And rushed to a shady retreat in the wood,
Where many veil'd forms mute and motionless stood.

“Say, which is Melachlin's fair daughter? away
With these veils,” cried Turgesius, “no longer delay;
Resistance is vain, we will quickly behold
Which robe hides the loveliest face in its fold;
These clouds shall no longer o'ershadow our bliss,
Let each seize a veil—and my trophy be this!”

He seized a white veil, and before him appear'd
No fearful weak girl—but a foe to be fear'd!
A youth—who sprang forth from his female disguise,
Like lightning that flashes from calm summer skies:
His hand grasp'd a weapon, and wild was the joy
That shone in the glance of the Warrior Boy.

And under each white robe a youth was conceal'd,
Who met his opponent with sword and with shield.
Turgesius was slain—and the maidens were blest,
Melachlin's fair daughter more blithe than the rest;
And ere the last sunbeam had crimson'd the sea,
They hailed the Boy-Victors—and Erin was free!

132

THE LITTLE BARK.

[_]

(Song composed by Mr. Manners.)

I

Calm was the night, the moon shone bright.
They floated o'er a sea of light—
A fair maid leant against the mast
And gazed upon our lonely isle;
We waved a token as she passed,
And she returned it with a smile.
No sound was heard—they seemed to glide,
In gentle slumber o'er the tide!

II

That happy night was calm and bright,
But storms arose with morning's light;—
And all the demons of the deep
Rushed from the caverns where they lay,
Like tigers that have feigned to sleep,
While watching their unconscious prey!
The waves were rough, the skies were dark:
Alas! how fared the little bark?

III

The storm is o'er—the sea once more
Sports with the pebbles on the shore:
Oh! has the bark escaped the storm?
Mis-shapen fragments strew the strand;
And see a lovely female form,
Lies cold and pale upon the sand:—
'Tis she who with a fearless smile,
Last night sail'd past our lonely isle!

133

POOR ANNETTE.

[_]

(French Air, arranged by Mr. Willis.)

I

I am a little Savoyard,
The wind is cold, the sun is set,
And night will soon my steps retard,
Then raise the latch for poor Annette!
My home is far beyond the sea—
None know me here, then pity me!
Since morn no friendly form has met
Poor—lost Annette!

II

I'll sing to thee—but cannot now
With other girls gay songs repeat;—
My theme must be a broken vow,—
And woman's love—and man's deceit!
And ah! my saddest tale will be
My own sad fate—them pity me:
When I am gone, none will regret
Poor—lost Annette!

GIVE THAT WREATH TO ME.

[_]

(Welsh Air, arranged, as a Song or Glee, by Sir John Stevenson.)

I

Give that wreath to me,
When the roses die;
Never let it be
Thrown neglected by:
Bloom and scent may perish,
Yet those leaves I'll cherish
Hallow'd by thy touch!
Then give that wreath to me.

134

II

Should I ever find
Other Nymphs as fair;
With gay wreaths entwin'd
Round their flowing hair;
Midst the wreaths of pleasure,
Still my faded treasure
Shall be next my heart!
Then give that wreath to me.

ART THOU THEN FORSAKEN.

[_]

(Altered from a Chant by Mr. Manners.)

I

Art thou then forsaken,
Do thy fond hopes fall from thee;—
Like sweet blossoms shaken
By the tempest from the tree?
Does a frown repel thee
From the eyes that smil'd before,
Does the false one tell thee
Thou art dear to him no more?

II

Though the change may wound thee,
Shew it not in look or tone;—
Smile—when smiles surround thee,
Tears may flow when thou'rt alone!
Oh! like yon sweet flowers,
Meet the sunshine of the world—
Though in darker hours,
Ev'ry dewy leaf is furled.

135

THE BANNER SHOULD WAVE.

[_]

(Glee composed by Mr. Clifton.)

I

The banner should wave o'er the tomb of the brave,
And his comrades should follow his corse to the grave!
He should fall in the field—he should rest on his shield,
And should smile on the wound he knows ne'er can be heal'd!

II

It is not for him that the eye shall be dim;
But his name oft shall hallow the goblet's bright brim;
His helm and his sword are as relics adored,
And we fondly repeat his last faltering word!

III

But he must be mourned who in triumph returned,
When the battle was over, with laurels well earned:
Who seemed to have past thro' the war's fiercest blast—
But to fall from before us in sunshine at last!

IV

The spirit whose light was unsullied and bright,
In the moment of danger the front of the fight!
Was quenched in the ray of a prosperous day,
When the threatning danger had faded away!

LOVE'S MINSTREL.

[_]

(Song composed by J. A. Wade, Esq.)

I

Once a sage with cold displeasure,
Thus reproved a child of song:—
“Cease, oh! cease that trifling measure,
“Love has been your theme too long!

136

“Go, and seek some nobler story,
“Free from vows, and tears, and sighs;—
“Sing of hope—of war—of glory:
“Sing no more of lips and eyes!”

II

Soon the Bard obeyed, combining
Bolder notes and nobler words,
Loudly touched his harp, resigning
All the sweetness of its chords!
Once his tale of love and beauty
With a poet's warmth was told;
Now the task, imposed by duty,
Seems alas but dull and cold!

III

“Oh!” he cries, “forgive me, Father,
“All my lofty flights are vain.
“Keep your laurels—I had rather
“Wear Love's myrtle wreath again.
“Why should I profane the pages
“Some have touched with so much skill!
“Sense I leave to sober sages,
“I'll be Love's wild minstrel still!”

OH! MAY WE HOPE THO' COLD AND DEAD.

[_]

(English Melody, arranged as a Duet by Sir J. Stevenson.)

I

Oh! may we hope, tho' cold and dead
Her form lies buried here,
Her spirit views the tears we shed
And nightly hovers near?

II

No! if our love beyond the skies
Survive death's icy kiss,
The mourner's tears are veiled from eyes
That look on perfect bliss.

137

OH ASK ME NOT FOR SPORTIVE LAYS.

[_]

(Song composed by Mr. Sinclair.)

I

Oh ask me not for sportive lays,
Like those I used to sing;—
The harp you loved in former days,
Has lost its sweetest string!
And if I sing of youthful joys,
I touch my harp in vain:
The loss of that one string destroys
The beauty of the strain!

II

Young love had once a harp they say,
And with a boy's delight,
In summer he would often play
Sweet songs from morn till night.
But winter came, and Cupid cried,
While leaning o'er his lyre,
And now, alas! 'tis thrown aside,
For tears hath spoilt the wire!