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

Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems

by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes

Bayly, Thomas Haynes (1797-1839)

VOL I.

[VERSE EXTRACTED FROM MEMOIR]

LOVES OF THE BUTTERFLIES.

MELODIES OF VARIOUS NATIONS.

MINIATURE LYRICS.

AIRS OF HAUT-TON.

SONGS FOR THE GRAVE AND GAY.

SONGS OF FASHIONABLE LIFE.

SONGS FROM A FOREIGN LAND.

SONGS OF THE OLD CHATEAU.

SONGS TO ROSA.

BALLADS.

SONGS OF THE HAMLET.

SONGS FROM FAIRY LAND.

SONGS OF THE SEASONS.

SONGS OF THE BOUDOIR.

MISCELLANEOUS SONGS.

II.

[VOLUME TWO]

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

I. VOL I.

[VERSE EXTRACTED FROM MEMOIR]

TO A FRIEND.

Oh! poetry, sweet maid, who only deigns
To smile upon the good, the innocent;
To thee I fain would sing, to thee who oft
Hast scattered roses o'er the rigid face
Of youthful woe, for youth has still its griefs,
And separation from the mother dear,
Who oft has watched us in the hour of sleep,
Will wet with sorrow's tear the cheek of youth,
And teach his glowing bosom to repine.
Oh! Ross, to thee I now address my song;
To thee, companion of my earliest lays,
My earliest efforts to awake the lyre.
And though no glowing numbers here are found,
The heart that dictates to my artless pen
Is not less warm, less capable of friendship;
And though my humble muse cannot presume
To claim a sapling from Apollo's wreath,
Yet, as the music of the tuneful choir
May tempt the sparrow to pour forth his lay,
And imitate the warblings of the thrush,
So I, enchanted with the lofty lays
Of abler poets, may attempt to touch
The humble lyre of a rustic muse,
And pour to thee my artless melody.
Perhaps in future hours, when opprest
With all the cares and crosses of the world,
Sweet memory will recal the blissful days
I spent with thee, and with the pensive muse.

MONODY.

Again, again, oh! let me hear you speak,
Call me, embrace me, look on me again;
My hand is on your forehead, it shall seek
To give relief and mitigate your pain;
And yours will soon press mine, 'tis only weak.
Hope cannot be quite lost—life must remain.
I see his bosom heave; I hear his breath—
'Tis sleep, 'tis stupor, anything but Death!

It is not Death, though motionless he be,
That may of ease and slumber be a token;
No friendly glance now beams from those dim eyes,
By those pale lips no feeble words are spoken;
Far better were complaints and painful sighs,
Than silence, silence never to be broken.
Yet still he sleeps—we may in time restore—
No—no—his sleep is Death, he wakes no more!

My task is over, and I'll not repine,
Since all his tedious pangs are at an end;
Beside his bed I shall no more recline,
To all his whisper'd wants no more attend;
I ne'er shall see his moist eyes fixed on mine,
In silent recognition of his friend;
I never more shall cool his fever'd brow,
Or bathe his cheeks—all, all is over now!

He loved me like a brother, and I felt
That I should watch him with a brother's care;
His chamber was my own, I fondly dwelt
Ever beside him, comforting him there.
He sought my aid in all things, and I knelt,
Morning and evening, joining him in prayer:
Whilst tremulous and weak my voice was heard,
He breathed with firm distinctness every word.

He had no cause to tremble, for his mind
(If man's can ever be so) was prepared.
In health and strength affectionate and kind,
All must have loved him; and in death he dared
Look up with faith and hope, and was resigned
To his Creator's will. He hath been spared
The ills of a bad world; but we have lost
One most beloved—'tis we who suffer most.

When last we parted, his young heart was sad;
But we were full of hope, that future days
Would bring a happy meeting; and we had
Delightful plans, projecting many ways
Of being blest together; he was glad
To press my hand, and he would often raise
Schemes of unbounded pleasure, shared with me:
This might have been—but this can never be!

We thought of happy meetings, and we met,
But never to be happy; grief and pain
Had changed his cheerful face; my eyes were wet
With tears I laboured to conceal in vain.
I feel his feeble arms embrace me yet,
Whilst mine were thrown around him, and again
I hear him whisper, in a gentle tone,
“My dear, dear friend, I never had but one.”

I took a last sad look, and turned away,
Leaving him in his grave. I used to share
His innocent pursuits; and all the day
Was happy by his side; yet he lies there
Unconscious of the heavy griefs that prey
Upon my wounded heart. My fervent prayer
He hears not, “that the joys we hope above
May be a state of bliss with those we love.”

Ah! yes, we never, never could sustain
The loss of those we value here below,
Had we not Faith, that we shall meet again
In a far better world;—it must be so.
'Tis this that soothes the sick man in his pain;
'Tis this alleviates the mourner's woe;
And this shall be my comfort; though we sever,
I felt—I feel—it cannot be for ever.

And time that changes all things may subdue
My present depth of anguish; I may rove
With those who soothe my sorrow, and renew
The smiles of former days, but I shall love
In solitary hours to think of you,
And sigh for past delights. We soon remove
The mourner's sable garb; but none can know
How long in secret lurks the mourner's woe.

MOURNFUL RECOLLECTIONS.

Oh, Time! I ask thee not to steal away
My present grief—I wish not to be gay;
Forgetfulness alone can cure regret,
And whilst I live, I never can forget.

Yes, tears will flow, philosophy in vain
May strive to teach forgetfulness of pain;
We hear the cold advice which strangers give,
Mere words—which all bestow—and none receive.

We listen while they speak,—when they are gone
The heart still aches, and tears will still flow on.
Each book, each plant, each trifle, we behold,
Is hallowed by the touch of hands now cold.

Yet leave these relics—seek in change of scene
A potent spell to make your griefs less keen.
Quit all your lost friend valued, and remove
Each trifle that reminds you of his love.
Roam o'er the world, new friends, new joys, to find,
Laugh and be gay—but first leave thought behind.

If change avails not, seek employment then,
Your books, your walks, your pencil, or your pen:
You read—and seek the volumes of his choice—
Where is that one who listened to your voice?
You walk—but whilst you view each lovely scene
Where is the arm on which you used to lean?
You draw—but still those scenes your choice must be,
Which e'en in darkness you distinctly see.
You write—but now the subject of your lay,
Is friendship lost, and pleasure pass'd away.

Some may pass on through life, and quickly find
New ties replacing those they leave behind:
One they called friend may sink into the tomb,
And only cause a momentary gloom;
Awhile they miss in every gay pursuit
The voice once lively, now for ever mute;
Or in the scenes where they have often met,
They deign to breathe a word of cold regret;
But soon their transient, heartless sorrow ends,
They seek for other joys with other friends.

It is an easy task, for hearts at rest,
To talk of brighter days to the distressed;
To shew us joys the future may reveal,
And speak of that composure which they feel.
They may remind us, tears and sighs are vain—
Alas! can hopelessness diminish pain?

They say, when God afflicts us, it is fit
That men should suffer meekly, and submit.
Yes, we submit, and place our trust alone
In one last hope—to go where they are gone.
We know his dispensations must be borne,
We bow to his behest,—yet still we mourn.
Religion teaches us to hope for bliss—
But in another region—not in this.

When I at last beheld his coffin thrust
Into its narrow dwelling—dust to dust,
When motionless I stood upon the brink
Of his cold grave and wept, I could not think
That the mind's purity would pass away,
And, like the body, totally decay:
No—that pure spirit which was wont to shed
A charm o'er all he did, and all he said;
That excellence which made him dear to me,
Was formed for life and immortality.
The mortal part may seek its loathsome prison,
The soul—the part of him we loved, is risen,
Gone—where the pure in heart again shall meet;
Ah, yes!—our prospect would be incomplete,
Did we not hope to share the perfect bliss
Of that bright world, with friends so dear in this,
And recognize those forms in realms above,
Who claimed on earth our fondest, purest love.

[If any poet can express]

If any poet can express
Helena's worth and loveliness
To him I leave these spotless pages;
Were I to labour here for ages,
Language could ne'er convey my thought,
I could not praise her as I ought.

[Oh! think not, Helena, of leaving us yet]

Oh! think not, Helena, of leaving us yet,
Though many fair damsels inhabit our Isle,
Alas! there are none who can make us forget
The grace of thy form, and the charm of thy smile.

The toys of the French, if they hither are sent,
Are endeared by the payment of Custom House duties.
Ah! why do not duty and custom prevent
The rash exportation of pure British Beauties?

Say is there not one (midst the many who sighed
To solicit your favour) one favourite beau?
And have you to all, who popp'd questions, replied,
With that chilling, unkind monosyllable, no?

Your mansion with exquisite swains has been thronged,
With smiles they approach you, in tears they depart,
Indeed, it is said, that a man who belonged
To the Tenth, sighed in vain for a tithe of your heart.

And are you still happy? could no one be found,
Whose vows full of feeling could teach you to feel?
A girl so expert at inflicting a wound
Should surely be now and then willing to heal.

Then leave us not; shall a foreigner own
The form we have worshipped as if 'twere divine?
No, no, thou art worthy a Briton alone,
And where is the Briton who would not be thine?

The sordid will come to thee:—yield not to them,
Nor give up thy heart, though they earnestly ask it,
But say to them, “Gentlemen—is it the gem
That you wish to possess, or the dross of the casket?”

Their hearts are not rent, no, their wounds would be small
Were it not for your rents that they wish to possess.
They're very sincere, for undoubtedly all
Feel an interest for you they cannot express.

Yet, pretty Helena, you must not evade
All Lovers, disgusted by lovers of pelf;
Go look in thy mirror, and own thou wert made
To be loved with devotion, and loved for thyself.

[He is gone! the bright star of a nation is hurled]

He is gone! the bright star of a nation is hurled
From its proud elevation; its lustre is dim.
He is cold as the sod where he sleeps, and this world
With its scorn, or its laurels, is nothing to him.

And both have been his, in the dawn of his life
He has grasped, he hath gained the green garland of fame,
While slander hath struggled with pitiful strife
To point out his errors, and sully his name.

He hath tasted the cup of calamity too,
And its bitterness poisoned his earliest years;
In the withering gloom of his numbers we view,
The grief of a spirit too noble for tears.

He was rash, and his feelings too proudly disdained
One moment's subjection to reason's control;
As well might a wave of the ocean be chained
In its stormy career, as so daring a soul.

He hath felt, and the world loved to tear off the veil
From his agonized feelings, and laugh them to scorn:
It spoke of his follies, and what was the tale?
He had erred,—was an exile,—unhappy,—forlorn.

And oh! if indeed it be true, that a mind
So ennobled by genius, rejected belief
In that God, through whose infinite mercy mankind
Can alone find a solace in sickness or grief,

May that mind ere its last fatal moment have felt
All its error; and spurning mortality's chain,
May the sinner's first prayer have been heard while he knelt
At that throne, where a penitent pleads not in vain

Had he lived, he might yet have shone gloriously forth,
And those talents which oft have been lavishly given
To gild all the fleeting enjoyments of earth,
Might at length have devoted their brightness to Heaven.

[Go, little Ruby Heart! and live]

Go, little Ruby Heart! and live
As dear Helena's guest,
And tell her I would gladly give
The world to be as blest.

Say also she must not forget
(Since heartless I depart)
That she is deeply in my debt,
The item is—a heart.

And tell her too I shall be glad
To dun her when we meet;
And if she'll pay me, I will add,
My hand to the receipt.

[Dear Duchess]

Dear Duchess,
I hope that your grace will permit
Your servant in exile to scribble a bit:
Yet hope not to find an amusing detail
Of the joys of the country—pigs, poultry, and ale;
I fain would amuse you; but what can I do?
I'm dull, but remember I'm absent from you.
I walk in the fields with the cows and the sheep,
I struggle through ditches both dirty and deep;
I gaze on the prospect, the mountains of Wales,
The Severn besprinkled with snowy white sails;
The cottages, too, with pretty spring flowers,
And Thornbury Castle with turreted towers;
But where is Rosetta, the Queen of the May?
With form so bewitching, with spirits so gay,
And with eyes in whose gentle expression we find
The beauty that beams from a beautiful mind.

Ah! where is Rosetta? in pleasure's gay path,
She roves in the Crescent, the idol of Bath;
While I look on donkies, or curly-tailed pigs,
She gazes on lovers who rumble in gigs,
Or those who on foot approach enviably near,
And breathe the soft language of love in her ear.
And does she forget me? Fly, Ruby Heart, fly!
And say, if she smiles upon others—I die:
Bid her seek the back drawing-room, there she will see
The Beacon that ought to remind her of me.

Go, show her the roses I gave her, as yet
They cannot be withered, and can she forget?
Go teach her white fingers to touch my guitar,
And tell her to think that its cadences are
The voices of sweet little seraphs who say,
Forget not poor Felix who sighs far away.

[Oh may'st thou be happy, my early young friend]

Oh may'st thou be happy, my early young friend,
As happy as man in this world can be;
May smiles like thine own thy steps attend,
May hearts like thine own still welcome thee!

I never have met on this chilling earth,
So merry, so kind, so frank a youth!
In moments of pleasure, a smile all mirth;
In moments of sorrow, a heart all truth.

I've heard thee praised, I've seen thee led
By fashion along her gay career;
While beautiful lips have often shed
Their flattering poison in thine ear.

And oh! I have said, he must be changed,
He cannot withstand this constant praise;
He must be spoilt, and his heart estranged
From the friends he loved in his boyish days.

But no! when we met, I found thee still
From vanity's vile contagion free;
With manners that asked and gave good will,
And pleased by their pure simplicity.

Farewell, my friend! may thy youthful bride,
As perfect in mind as in person prove;
And in years to come, may'st thou look with pride
On the being whose charms have won thy love.

Yes—may'st thou be happy, my early friend,
As happy as man in this world can be;
May smiles like thine own, thy steps attend,
May hearts like thine own still welcome thee.

[Cling to the Cross, thou lone one]

Cling to the Cross, thou lone one,
For a solace in thy grief;
Let faith believe its promise,
There is joy in that belief.

Oh lie not down, poor mourner,
On the cold earth in despair;
Why give the grave thy homage?
Does the spirit moulder there?

The unbeliever trusts not
The atonement of the Cross:
Say, where shall he find comfort,
In the gloom of such a loss?

Can He cheer his house of mourning,
With the madden'd cry of mirth?
No! he throws himself despairing
On his all, a clod of earth.

Cling to the Cross, thou lone one,
For it hath power to save.
If the Christian's hope forsake thee,
There's no hope beyond the grave.

TO MRS. AMES.

Her ball is fixed for Friday—
My angel wife exclaims;
May I believe the tidings?
Oh thank you, Mrs. Ames.

She has sent out her servant,
(I can't remember names)
Oh what do you call the fellow?
Your own man, Mrs. Ames.

John, Thomas, William, Robert,
Jehosophat, or James,
No matter—she has sent him
With cards from Mrs. Ames.

And he'll ride round the country
(Unless his nag he lames),
Inviting all the neighbourhood
To wait on Mrs. Ames.

I trust your cold is better.
Oh! vain were sportive games,
Unless you can enjoy them;
Then sneeze not, Mrs. Ames.

Take Ipecacuhana,
Or powders made by James
Take tea, and toast-and-butter
Take comfort, Mrs. Ames.

Shake off your influenza,
Most beautiful of dames;
For Gunter's man is coming.
Behold him, Mrs. Ames.

For needful preparations
The dining-room he claims;
We'll bivouac above stairs;
That's cosey, Mrs. Ames!

But I must tie my neckcloth;
I hear the people's names,
Announced by Payn, the butler,
Oh! Presto, Mrs. Ames.

[I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!]

I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!
I've bent beneath sorrow's cold pressure too long.
I've suffered in silence; how vainly I sought
For words to unburthen the anguish of thought;
Despair haunts the silent endurance of wrong
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

I welcome thee back as the Dove to the Ark:
The world was a desert, the future all dark;
But I know that the worst of the storm must be past,
Thou art come with the green leaf of comfort at last.
Around me thy radiant imagining throng,
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

I feared thee, sweet Spirit! I thought thou would'st come
With memory's records of boyhood and home;
The home where I laughed away youth, and was told
It would still be my dwelling place when I grew old;
But visions of hope to thy coming belong,
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

Thou wilt not, sweet Spirit! thou wilt not, I know,
Mislead to the fruitless indulgence of woe,
That shrinks from the smile that would offer relief,
And seems to be proud of pre-eminent grief—
Thou'lt soothe the depression already too strong:
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

There's a chord that I never must venture to wake,
The sorrow a loved one hath borne for my sake;
But her love, which no change in my fortunes could chill,
Her smile of affection that follows me still,
Oh! these are the themes I may proudly prolong,
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

I welcome thee back, and again I look forth
With my wonted delight on the blessings of earth;

Again I can smile with the gay and the young;
The lamp is relighted, the harp is restrung.
Despair haunts the silent endurance of wrong,
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

[Oh! hadst thou never shared my fate]

Oh! hadst thou never shared my fate,
More dark that fate would prove,
My heart were truly desolate,
Without thy soothing love.

But thou hast suffer'd for my sake,
Whilst this relief I found
Like fearless lips that strive to take
The poison from a wound!

My fond affection thou hast seen,
Then judge of my regret,
To think more happy thou hadst been,
If we had never met.

And has that thought been shar'd by thee!
Ah no, that smiling cheek
Proves more unchanging love for me
Than labour'd words could speak.

But there are true hearts which the sight
Of sorrow summons forth;
Though known in days of past delight,
We knew not half their worth.

How unlike some, who have profess'd,
So much in friendship's name;
Yet calmly pause to think how best
They may evade her claim.

But ah! from them to thee I turn;
They'd make me loathe mankind.
Far better lessons I may learn
From thy more holy mind.

The love that gives a charm to home,
I feel they cannot take.
We'll pray for happier years to come,
For one another's sake.

[Old Boat! I wish a lot were mine]

Old Boat! I wish a lot were mine,
In youth and age resembling thine:
When young and strong, like thee to glide
Over a calm and sunny tide.
For innocent enjoyment fram'd,
Pleasure nam'd with me, when I'm nam'd.
A cheerful aspect still I'd wear,
Sought by the youthful and the fair;
And offering to every guest,
A shelter and a place of rest.

['Twas in a happy summer hour]

'Twas in a happy summer hour,
I watched the building of the bower.
No mansion raised for vain display,
Nor one where labour works his way,
But formed to be the home of pleasure,
Where Virtue spends her blameless leisure.

Farewell, dear friends, oft may we meet
Hereafter in this calm retreat;
May every year add something bright
To your pure portion of delight.
Ah! may you in your daughters find
The mother's form, the mother's mind.
Look on your sons, and proudly see
Their father's high integrity.
And blest with this delightful thought
By us, their virtues have been taught.

Farewell! henceforth each dweller here
Shall to my heart be very dear,
Remembering whene'er I roam,
Cintra has been to me a home.

[May the young Queen be happy, and calm her renown]

I

May the young Queen be happy, and calm her renown,
While the sword in the scabbard reposes;
On the forehead of youth may the sovereign crown
Press no more than a chaplet of roses.
May the Arts, as they did in Elizabeth's reign,
Shed around intellectual glory;
And Victoria's annals be free from the stain
Of the errors that darkened her story.
May the young Queen be happy, unsullied her court,
And the love of her people her pride and support!

II

May the young Queen be happy! should peace pass away
Not a heart in her kingdom would falter;
Her voice would call forth a triumphant array,
In defence of the throne and the altar.
But laurels enough ready gathered we find;
And no spark of right feeling he loses,
Who prays that the olive may now be entwin'd
With the evergreen wreath of the Muses.
May the young Queen be happy, unsullied her court,
And the love of her people her pride and support!

LOVES OF THE BUTTERFLIES.

I. I'D BE A BUTTERFLY BORN IN A BOWER.

I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet;
Roving for ever from flower to flower,
And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet!
I'd never languish for wealth, or for power;
I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet:
I'd be a Butterfly born in a bower,
Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.

O could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,
I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings:
Their summer-day's ramble is sportive and airy,
They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings.
Those, who have wealth, must be watchful and wary;
Power, alas! nought but misery brings!
I'd be a Butterfly sportive and airy,
Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings!

What, though you tell me each gay little rover
Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day!
Surely 'tis better, when summer is over,
To die when all fair things are fading away.
Some in life's winter may toil to discover
Means of procuring a weary delay—
I'd be a Butterfly; living, a rover,
Dying when fair things are fading away!

II. OH! FOLLY CAUGHT ME, AS I SLEPT.

Oh! Folly caught me, as I slept,
Upon a lilac spray;
And spurned me, when his hand had swept
My golden down away.
Look at my bruised and broken wing,
'Twill bear me hence no more:
The flowers will bloom, the birds will sing,
But my summer-flight is o'er.
Alas! alas! how very brief
Is pleasure's brightest ray!
The sun, that warms the summer-leaf,
Will hasten its decay.

I was the Insect-Queen, and oft
On me admirers gazed;
And, as in sport I soar'd aloft,
My beauty has been praised.
But other triflers will be found
To grace the garden now;
And other wings will hover round
My own sweet lilac bough.
Alas! alas! how very brief
Is pleasure's brightest ray!
The sun, that warms the summer-leaf,
Will hasten its decay.

III. BUTTERFLY BEAU.

I'm a volatile thing, with an exquisite wing,
Sprinkled o'er with the tints of the rainbow;
All the Butterflies swarm to behold my sweet form,
Though the Grubs may all vote me a vain beau.
I my toilet go through, with my rose-water dew,
And each blossom contributes its essence;
Then all fragrance and grace, not a plume out of place,
I adorn the gay world with my presence—
In short, you must know,
I'm the Butterfly Beau.

At first I enchant a fair Sensitive plant,
Then I flirt with the Pink of perfection:
Then I seek a sweet Pea, and I whisper; “For thee
“I have long felt a fond predilection.”
A Lily I kiss, and exult in my bliss,
But I very soon search for a new lip;
And I pause in my flight to exclaim with delight,
“Oh! how dearly I love you, my Tulip!”
In short, you must know,
I'm the Butterfly Beau.

Thus for ever I rove, and the honey of love
From each delicate blossom I pilfer;
But though many I see pale and pining for me,
I know none that are worth growing ill for:
And though I must own, there are some that I've known,
Whose external attractions are splendid;
On myself I must doat, for in my pretty coat
All the tints of the garden are blended—
In short, you must know,
I'm the Butterfly Beau.

IV. ROUND MY OWN PRETTY ROSE.

Round my own pretty Rose I have hover'd all day;
I have seen its sweet leaves one by one fall away;
They are gone—they are gone—but I go not with them;
No, I linger to weep o'er the desolate stem.
They say—‘If I rove to the South, I shall meet
With hundreds of Roses more fair and more sweet:’
But my heart, when I'm tempted to wander, replies;
“Here my first love—my last love—my only love lies.”

When I sprang from the home where my plumage was nurst,
'Twas my own pretty Rose that attracted me first.
We have loved all the summer; and now that the chill
Of the winter comes o'er us, I'm true to thee still.
When the last leaf is wither'd, and falls to the earth,
The false one to southerly climes may fly forth:
But Truth cannot fly from his sorrow; he dies,
Where his first love—his last love—his only love lies.

V. MY OWN BLUE BELL! MY PRETTY BLUE BELL!

My own Blue Bell! my pretty Blue Bell!
I never will rove where Roses dwell:
My wings you view of your own bright hue,
And oh! never doubt that my heart's true blue!
Though oft I own, I have foolishly flown
To peep at each bud that was newly blown;
I now have done with folly and fun,
For there's nothing like constancy under the sun,
My own Blue Bell! my pretty Blue Bell!
I never will rove where Roses dwell:
My wings you view of your own bright hue,
And oh! never doubt that my heart's true blue!

Some Belles are Blues, invoking the muse,
And talking of vast intellectual views;
Their crow-quill's tip in the ink they dip,
And they prate with the lore of a learned lip:
Blue bells like these may be wise as they please,
But I love my own Blue Bell that bends in the breeze:
Pride passes her by—but she charms my eye
With a tint, that resembles the cloudless sky.
My own Blue Bell! my pretty Blue Bell!
I never will rove where Roses dwell:
My wings you view of your own bright hue,
And oh! never doubt that my heart's true blue!

VI. LONG AGO, ERE MY WINGS WERE UNFURL'D.

Long ago, ere my wings were unfurl'd,
When I lay in a chrysalis state;
I was ugly, neglected, unfit for the world,
And despised by the gay and the great:
If I ventured to utter a word,
My voice in an instant was hush'd;
And, when trampled upon, it was voted absurd
In a Grub to resist being crush'd.

But my fortunes improved, and I rose
In the world on the wings of success;
And I very soon found I was follow'd by those,
Who once laugh'd at my manners and dress:
The blossoms of beauty, that spurn'd
Long ago so degrading a match,
Now when I perch'd near to them, smilingly turn'd;
For they thought me a pretty good catch.

This, I own, is a fanciful theme;
Yet 'tis not without meaning, you'll find:
For the loves of the Butterflies, small though they seem,
May resemble the loves of mankind—
The Grub, that is slighted to-day
As a suitor presuming and bold,
May perhaps be received in a different way,
When soaring on pinions of gold.

VII. THE BUTTERFLY WAS A GENTLEMAN.

The Butterfly was a gentleman,
Of no very good repute;
And he roved in the sunshine all day long,
In his scarlet and purple suit:
And he left his lady-wife at home
In her own secluded bower;
Whilst he, like a bachelor, flirted about
With a kiss for every flower.

His lady-wife was a poor glow-worm,
And seldom from home she'd stir;
She loved him better than all the world,
Though little he cared for her.
Unheeded she pass'd the day—she knew
Her lord was a rover then;
But, when night came on, she lighted her lamp
To guide him over the glen.

One night the wanderer homeward came,
But he saw not the glow-worm's ray:
Some wild-bird saw the neglected one,
And flew with her far away.
Then beware, ye Butterflies all, beware
If to you such a time should come:
Forsaken by wandering lights, you'll wish
You had cherish'd the lamp at home.

VIII. EACH BOWER HAS BEAUTY FOR ME.

Each bower has beauty for me,
There's a charm in each blossom that blows;
And, if absent the Lily should be,
I shall do very well with the Rose:
If Roses are not in the way,
I'll fly to a Hyacinth soon;
And I never will quarrel with May,
For wanting the Roses of June.
No! no! 'tis my pleasure to chase
Each pretty bud under the sun:
Why should I insult the whole race,
By a silly selection of one?

I love each exotic, that deigns
In a climate like this to expand;
And my heart its affection retains
For the bloom of my dear native land:
In summer's gay mansions I dwell,
And since summer so soon will be past,
Though I love her first bud very well,
I have love in reserve for her last.
Yes! yes! 'tis my pleasure to chase
Each pretty bud under the sun:
Why should I offend the whole race,
By a silly selection of one?

IX. ONE MORN I LEFT MY BOAT, TO STRAY.

One morn I left my boat, to stray
In yon island's dewy bowers;
I cull'd its sweets, and sail'd away
With my stolen store of flowers:
The west wind bore me o'er the flood,
My prize from the sun I shaded;
But, ere evening came, the fairest bud
In my lovely wreath was faded!

That eve, when nought but sea and sky
In the dreary prospect blended,
A little blue-wing'd Butterfly
Upon the deck descended;
It nestled near the Rose, its wing
Then lost its buoyant power;
And I saw the insect withering
Beside its own poor flower.

MELODIES OF VARIOUS NATIONS.

HARK! FROM YONDER HOLY PILE.

[_]

(Portuguese Air.)

I

Hark! from yonder holy pile
Wedding-bells are ringing;
White-rob'd forms, who crowd the aisle,
Solemn chaunts are singing.
See the happy bride appear—
Yet her footsteps falter;
Wherefore should she shed a tear,
At the sacred altar?
'Tis not that she wishes now
From her love to sever;
'Tis—that should he break his vow,
She is lost for ever.

II

Causeless are thy fears, fair bride,
Vain the doubts that grieve thee;
View him kneeling at thy side,
Think not he'll deceive thee.
Binding be his bridal oath,
And his love increasing;
And may Heav'n bestow on both
Pleasures never ceasing!
May that hand protect thee still,
Thine now fondly pressing;
And in ev'ry earthly ill,
Be thy guard and blessing!

III

Youth! the hope her bosom knows
Dies if you forsake her;
Never let her sigh for those
From whose arms you take her.
All her fondness ne'er forget,
E'en when youth is over;
Never let the wife regret
That she bless'd the lover.
May thy cares to her alone
Frankly be confided;
May the ties that make you one
Never be divided!

THEY MAY TALK OF SCENES THAT ARE BRIGHT AND FAIR.

[_]

(French Air.)

And when at length in these lonely bowers
Some happier youth you see,
And you cull for him spring's sweetest flowers,
And he sings of love for thee;
When you laugh with him at these vanish'd hours,
O! tell him to love like me,
Isabel!

IV

May his harp in mirthful moments bless thee
With measures light and gay;
And if mournful thoughts should e'er oppress thee,
And cloud thy youthful day,
May he with unchanging love caress thee,
And kiss thy tears away,
Isabel!

YOUTH'S BOSOM, WHEN JOY FLOURISHES.

[_]

(French Air.)

I

Youth's bosom, when joy flourishes,
Feels as if it were made for him;
In the visions his heart nourishes
Nothing is dark or dim:
The only sounds he loves to hear
Are those which fill the soul with bliss;
Whilst smiling friends surround him here,
No world can equal this,
Thus wandering, still endeavouring
Never to think that mortals die,
Death seems like a blight, severing
Every human tie.

II

When one whom he lov'd perishes,
Former joys from his grasp are hurl'd;
Then the sorrowing heart cherishes
Thoughts of a purer world;
And pleasure loses all the spells
Which dazzle youth's delighted eye,
Whilst all he looks on sadly tells
Of pleasure long gone by.
No more we view death fearfully,
But like a path where danger lies,
When friends seek it we move cheerfully,
Following all we prize.

III

Where then are the tints hovering
Over the path of early years?
Where then is the veil covering
Sorrows and fruitless tears?

Those early tints disperse, and leave
The shades that end our childish mirth;
The veil is gone—and we perceive
The checquered scenes of earth.
Oh! when from the heart chillingly
Fall the blossoms of hope and love,
Then it shrinks from the world, willingly
Soaring to hopes above.

CAN WE BANISH THE PAST? CAN WE EVER RENOUNCE.

[_]

(Bohemian Air.)

I

Can we banish the past? can we ever renounce
The friends and the pleasures belov'd by us once?
Ah! no: we in sorrow seek comfort alone,
In all that reminds us of days that are gone.
Let us talk of her then; 'tis a theme ever dear;
And we'll whisper her name till we fancy her here:
Surrounded by objects that endear'd by her touch,
We can never lament her, or love her too much.

II

Come, sing me the songs which she often has heard,
The past will revive with each note and each word;
If the future can offer no brightness to us,
We may steal a sad comfort from memory thus.
There are some who shrink back from such records with dread;
It is wise, if they wish not to think of the dead:
But dearest in death, as in life she must be,
And all that she valued is valued by me!

III

O touch not her harp! it has ever remain'd,
Since the hour that she left it, unmov'd, unprofan'd;
Not a hand o'er its strings has been suffer'd to stray,
It would chase her last thrilling vibration away:

Then awake not its music, for Oh! there's a tone,
There's a spell which belongs to that one harp alone;
But the spirit that call'd forth its sweetness is fled,
And its cadence would sound like a voice from the dead.

IV

Oh, touch not her harp! 'tis my only delight,
And I hear its sad notes 'mid the silence of night;
Her voice seems to utter her favourite words,
And her finger's soft pressure seems still on the chords:
And I fancy her then, as she shone upon earth,
In the bloom of her beauty, the dawn of her worth;
Not a soul was more pure, not a form was more fair—
In the haunts of the lovely, the loveliest there!

V

In that city, which, whilst in its splendour it stood,
Vesuvius whelm'd in its withering flood,
The projects of life, and mirth's liveliest breath,
Were changed in an instant to darkness and death.
Yet the wine-cup still stands in the desolate halls,
And the names which in pastime were carv'd on the walls;
For the relics of life and enjoyment will last
Long after life's transient enjoyments are past.

VI

It was thus with my heart when the prospect was gay,
The hopes that were dear to me melted away;
Where joy seem'd to shine, I met nothing but gloom,
And the friend who had lov'd me was cold in her tomb:
Yet here I see all that her fancy preferr'd,
And this is the room where her accents were heard;
And whilst we are here, though of pleasure bereft,
We feel that the relics of pleasure are left.

“At Pompeii we entered what is called a coffee-house, the marks of cups being visible on the stone.”
“A barrack for soldiers, the columns of which are scribbled with their names and jests.”—

Travels in Italy, Greece, and the Ionian Isles, by H. W. Williams, Esq.

WHEN METEOR-LIGHTS DANCE O'ER THE FEN.

[_]

(German Air.)

I.

When meteor-lights dance o'er the fen,
I guide the twinkling ray;
I haunt the path of wand'ring men,
And lead their steps astray:
When lovers meet to whisper, then
I prattle all they say;
We vanish in some shady glen
Before the dawn of day.

We know the token which unites
Two hearts—no longer two;
We tell the tar on stormy nights
His absent love is true;
We fan the flame of beacon lights,
And all his hopes renew:
When maiden ladies dream of sprites,
We make the lamps burn blue.

II.

I make the pallid misers quake,
In golden chains who dwell;
Ere mortal hopes are hatch'd, I break
The unsubstantial shell:
Before the dawn, the dew I shake
From heath and purple bell;
When stolen kisses rustics take,
We make them kiss and tell.

We know the token which unites,
Two hearts—no longer two;
We tell the tar on stormy nights
His absent love is true;
We fan the flame of beacon lights,
And all his hopes renew:
When maiden ladies dream of sprites,
We make the lamps burn blue.

IT IS IN THE VOICE OF YEARS THAT ARE GONE.

[_]

(Swiss Air.)

I

“It is” in “the voice of years that are gone,”
In the tale that descends from father to son,
We enrol for ever the hero's name,
And circle his tomb with the laurel of fame.

II

His glory time's progress diminishes not,
His actions survive without stain, without blot;
The banner and trophy shall over him wave,
And the tears of his country shall water his grave.

III

His name is the beacon that shines from afar,
To encourage our sons 'mid the dangers of war;
To teach them to do as their fathers have done,
And to live in “the voice of years that are gone.”

IV

Hast thou gaz'd on the sea in the stillness of night,
When the moon o'er the waves throws a tremulous light;
When a long line of glory shines radiantly through
The expanse of the ocean's more shadowy blue?

V

Oh! as bright as the radiance that beams o'er the flood,
Is the course which is trod by the great and the good;
And as purely the light of their valour and worth
Shines forth 'mid the spiritless shadows of earth.

“It is the voice of years that are gone.”—Ossian.

IN HAPPIER HOURS.

[_]

(German Air.)

I

In happier hours,
My pleasure all day
Was to rove with the thoughtless,
Or dance with the gay;
Through life, as I sported,
No clouds I could see,
And the hearts that were gayest
Were dearest to me.
But now, in affliction,
How chang'd is the view!
Though gay hearts are many,
Sincere ones are few

II

Though some come around us
To laugh and to jest,
In sickness or sorrow
They shrink from the test;
Their love and their friendship
Endures for a while;
While fortune is smiling,
They also can smile;
Like flowers that wither
When daylight is gone,
And lose all their sweetness
When out of the sun.

III

But you in my sorrow
Still faithfully came,
And, though I am alter'd,
I find you the same;

Whene'er you come near me
No pleasure you find,
Yet always leave something
Like pleasure behind:
Like the night-blowing Cereus,
Which sheds its perfume,
And opens its blossoms
'Mid darkness and gloom.

TO THE HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD IN SORROW I CAME.

Above her soft pillow, bright fairies are seen,
Who float in the air round the form of their queen;
Her light wand is wav'd o'er the slumberer's head,
And shades of past pleasures encircle her bed:
“Oh! bright,” cries the sprite, “are the visions I bring;
“I smile, and reality loses its sting:
“If you should miss
“Tangible bliss,
“You'll know the worth of a minute like this.

IV

“On the face of the ocean, in sunshine or shade,
“The tints imperceptibly brighten, or fade;
“Each varying cloud, or each glittering ray,
“Makes the face of the ocean more sombre, or gay:
“Some hearts change as quickly; the friend of the past,
“The dearest, the best, is forgotten at last;
“Faith which appears
“Hallow'd by tears
“Is lost in the sunshine of happier years.

V

“Yes! this is the world: like the changeable wind,
“Thus destiny sports with the hopes of mankind;
“And since so uncertain their joys when awake,
“We Fairies keep watch in the night for their sake;
“All daylight disasters we snatch from their view,
“While friends seem all constant, and lovers all true:
“And when they weep—
“Though wounds are deep,
“I with my wand bring a solace in sleep.”

O LEAVE ME TO MY SORROW.

[_]

(Irish Air.)

I

O leave me to my sorrow,
For my heart is oppress'd to-day;
O leave me, and to-morrow—
Dark shadows may pass away:
There's a time when all that grieves us
Is felt with a deeper gloom;
There's a time when hope deceives us,
And we dream of bright days to come,

II

In winter, from the mountain,
The stream like a torrent flows;
In summer, the same fountain
Is calm as a child's repose:
Thus, in grief, the first pangs wound us,
And tears of despair gush on;
Time brings forth new flowers around us,
And the tide of our grief is gone.

OH! CUPID'S BOW.

I

Hark! the convent bells are ringing,
And the nuns are sweetly singing,
“Holy Virgin, hear our prayer;”
See the novice comes to sever
Ev'ry worldly tie for ever;
“Take, Oh take her to your care!”
Still radiant gems are shining,
Her jet-black locks entwining;
And her robes around her flowing
With sunny tint glowing,
But all her rays are dim;
“Splendours brighter
“Now invite her,
“While we chaunt our vesper hymn.”

II

Now the lovely maid is kneeling,
With uplifted eyes appealing;
“Holy Virgin, hear our prayer;”
See, the abbess bending o'er her,
Breathes the sacred vow before her,
“Take, Oh take her to your care!”
Her form no more possesses
Those dark luxuriant tresses;
The solemn words are spoken,
Each earthly link is broken,
And all earthly joys are dim;
“Splendours brighter
“Now invite her,
“While we chaunt our vesper hymn.”

WE MEET AGAIN, BUT NOT IN BLISS.

[_]

(Scotch Air.)

I

We meet again, but not in bliss,
As we have met in moments past;
One sad remembrance darkens this—
Too well we know it is the last:
You go to fight in foreign lands,
Far, far across the raging main;
Long years must pass before our hands
Can meet in friendship's grasp again.

II

But though we meet as altered men,
In form and strength, less young and gay;
Though eyes may beam less brightly then,
And joy from some may pass away;

Yet promise this before we part,
Though there is much which time may chill,
We'll meet unchang'd in warmth of heart,
And keep our friendship blooming still.

III

We'll talk of all the merry days,
The days so darkly closing thus;
We'll sing again our jovial lays,
Reviving thoughts most dear to us:
Our former jests shall gaily pass,
And bring back frolics—far remov'd;
Again we'll fill the social glass.
To all the Scottish maids we loved.

IV

Though some sad proofs the world affords,
That kindness often masks deceit;
Though many part with warmest words,
Yet change to coldness when they meet;
In me such change you ne'er shall view;
Our parting was no studied form;
The voice that warmly spoke adieu,
Shall speak a welcome just as warm.

V

But should you all at length return
In safety to your native shore,
And seek the friend you lov'd, and learn
His hand can welcome you no more:
Though pleasure's voice, and beauty's smile,
Around your happy homes may be;
E'en then perhaps you'll pause awhile,
And heave one secret sigh for me.

THERE CAME FROM THE WARS ON A JET BLACK STEED.

[_]

(Welsh Air.)

I

There came from the wars on a jet black steed,
A Knight with a snowy plume:
He flew o'er the heath like a captive freed
From a dungeon's dreary gloom.

II

And gaily he rode to his lordly home,—
But the towers were dark and dim;
And he heard no reply, when he called for some
Who were dearer than life to him.

III

The gate which was hurled from its ancient place
Lay mould'ring on the bare ground,
And the Knight rushed in, but saw not a trace
Of a friend, as he gazed around!

IV

He flew to the grove, where his mistress's lute
Had charmed him with love's sweet tone:
But 'twas desolate now, and the strings were mute,
And she he adored was gone.

V

The wreaths were all dead in Rosalie's bower,
And Rosalie's dove was lost;
And the winter's wind had withered each flower
On the myrtle she valued most.

VI

But a cypress grew where the myrtle's bloom
Once scented the morning air;
And under its shade was a marble tomb,
And Rosalie's name was there!

FLY FORWARD MY BOAT! BEAR ME OVER THE OCEAN.

[_]

(Scotch Air.)

Thy soothing cadence lulls affliction's slumbers,
Thy nobler strains arouse the warrior's fire;
And well we know the pathos of thy numbers,
When little Cupid strings Apollo's lyre.
Hearts own thy sway, when lovers glide along
O'er waves whose ripple mingles with their song.

SHE NEVER BLAMED HIM—NEVER.

[_]

(Hindoostanee Air.)

I

She never blamed him—never,—
But received him when he came,
With a welcome kind as ever,
And she tried to look the same:
But vainly she dissembled,
For whene'er she tried to smile,
A tear unbidden trembled
In her blue eye all the while.

Why went she there, and who was He
Whose boat lay on the water?
What came he for? it could not be
To woo the Chieftain's daughter!
Oh! no! she surely went to watch
The stars with fond devotion;
And he, as surely came to catch
The fishes in the ocean.

IV

It may be so—yet strange to say,
The Knights were disconcerted,
When seeking her at dawn one day,
The chamber was deserted!
(Of course a good girl ne'er elopes;)
Yet Helen has bereft them
Of sanguine hopes,
And a ladder of ropes
Is all that she has left them!

GO! MAY'ST THOU BE HAPPY.

[_]

(Bavarian Air.)

I

Go! may'st thou be happy,
Though sadly we part;
In life's early summer
Grief breaks not the heart;

The ills that assail us
As speedily pass
As shades o'er a mirror,
Which stain not the glass.

III

Sing me your loud songs of triumph, and tell me
No more of weak fear, for I know not the word:
Shout round my couch, for should torture compel me
To utter one groan, it must never be heard.
Soon shall this body be mouldering ashes,
But my free soul shall be wafted above;
When o'er the valley the fading light flashes
Ada shall rest on the bosom of Love.

I'LL SING TO THEE THE FONDEST LAYS.

[_]

(Scotch Air.)

I

I'll sing to thee the fondest lays
That blue-eyed maiden ever heard;
I'll glean from songs of other days
Each tender thought, each gentle word:
I will not let my fancy rove
To themes that charm the worldly throng:
Oh! no! for fairy dreams of love
And nought but love shall grace my song.

II

I'll twine for thee the fairest flowers
That bloom upon the moss-rose tree;
I'll climb the hills, I'll search the bowers,
To find a garland fit for thee;
I'll breathe to thee each fervent vow
That ever pledged a lover's truth,
And swear the tie that links us now
Shall long outlive the smiles of youth.

III

I'll build for thee the lightest bark
That ever sailed upon the sea;
And when the troubled waves are dark,
My faithful arms shall shelter thee:
To glory's track,—or fortune's smile,
Let other vessels proudly float,
To some secluded sunny isle
I'll gaily steer my precious boat.

HARK! HARK! I HEAR A DISTANT DRUM.

[_]

(Troubadour Air.)

I

Hark! hark! I hear a distant drum;—
The tramp of the steeds,—they come! they come!
With weapons bright and banners gay,
They pass along in proud array;
We view the pomp of war alone,
Its gloom is gone:
And sweet to-night their dreams will be
Of Love, and Joy, and Victory.

II

But yon fair girl, in mute despair,
Looks round for one—who is not there;
She watches them till all are past,
And scarce believes she sees the last.
She lingers still—yet all are gone—
She stands alone!
Her Edward comes not,—where is he?
Alas! can this be Victory?

100

OH! NO! WE NEVER MENTION HER.

[_]

(French Air.)

I

Oh! no! we never mention her,
Her name is never heard;
My lips are now forbid to speak
That once familiar word:
From sport to sport they hurry me
To banish my regret;
And when they win a smile from me,
They think that I forget.

Behold the ships that proudly leave
The shelter of the shore;
The port of safety and of peace,
They ne'er may enter more:
And yet they go exultingly
With sails and flags unfurl'd;
And rush to brave the elements,
Like youth to brave the world!

II

Alas how like! some few are made
To sport on summer seas,
The buffets that they meet, are but
A billow and a breeze:
But some sail under darker skies
In tempest and in strife;
Like mortals who must struggle through
The darker scenes of life!

I'LL FIND YOU OUT.

I will love you! that is saying
I'll be all you most approve,
Ev'ry deed of mine, obeying
Ev'ry wish of Him I love;
Speak not, for your eyes will guide me,
And the payment that I seek,
Is that you will sit beside me
With a smile upon your cheek.

II

I will love you! round you sporting
When I know your heart's at ease,
Proudly for your sake exerting
Ev'ry talent that can please:
And as surely will I watch you
In the moment of alarm,
Oh! how happy could I snatch you
From a woe, with this weak arm.

THE DESERTED BRIDE.

I

Am I then so soon deserted,
Is my boasted beauty gone?
Was I sought, and was I courted
For my gold alone?
Poorer maids my grief behold!
Love will not be bought with gold.

II

In my home the lover found me,
Then these eyes had ne'er been dim
Many friends were smiling round me,
Yet I welcomed Him!
Oh! how could you change such bliss,
False one! to a doom like this?

108

III

Yet I loved you, and I swerve not
From the love I once profess;
Though such duty you deserve not,
I'll not love you less:
No, I came with my free will,
And alas! I love you still!

IV

Take my gold,—ah, could I weave it
Into Love's own precious chain;
Trust me I would freely give it
Were it mine again.
Faithful Love forgets its pride,
Come to your deserted Bride.

THE LADY'S PAGE.

I

I'll hang up my harp on a willow tree,
And I'll go to the wars again;
For a peaceful home has no charm for me,
And a battle-field no pain;
The Lady I serve will soon be a bride,
With a diadem on her brow;
Ah! why did she flatter my boyish pride?
She is going to leave me now.

II

She took me away from a warlike Lord,
And she gave me a silken suit;
And I thought no more of my Master's sword,
When I danced to my Lady's lute;
And she seemed to think me a Boy above
Her pages of low degree:
Oh had I but loved with a boyish love,
It would have been well for me.

109

III

In my breast I will hide my selfish care,
I will flush my pale cheek with wine;
And when smiles shall welcome the Bridal pair,
I will hasten to give them mine.
I will laugh and sing, though my heart may bleed,
I will dance to the Bridal train;
And if I survive it, I'll mount my steed,
And I'll rush to the wars again.

O SMILE NOT UPON ME.

I

Oh smile not upon me, a frown were less cold
Than a smile so unlike those you gave me of old;
Thy love was my treasure, I mourn its decay—
Sighing!—Sighing!—day after day.

II

You speak to me kindly, and strive to conceal
By the warmth of your words, all the languor you feel;
But I see that in thought you are roving away—
Sighing!—Sighing!—day after day.

III

Go smile upon others and leave me to die,
I shall rest in the tomb where my forefathers lie;
Where once I was happy, 'tis torture to stray—
Sighing!—Sighing!—day after day.

IV

I sit by the river and watch the cascade,
Ah!—once there was mirth in the murmur it made;
But sorrowful now seems the dash of its spray—
Sighing!—Sighing!—day after day.

110

A SOLDIER LAD.

I

A Soldier Lad my Love shall be,
He'll frown on the foe, but He'll smile on me.
I'll deck his helm with plumage light.
I'll make his shield and buckler bright;
And when the trump he hears,
He shall not see my tears.

II

A Soldier Lad my Love shall be,
He'll frown on the foe, but He'll smile on me,
And when I hear the fife and drum,
When all exclaim “They come! They come!”
I know I shall not speak,—
The voice of joy is weak!

III

A Soldier Lad my Love shall be,
He'll frown on the foe, but He'll smile on me,
I'll make him tell of battles fought,
Yet shudder at the tale I sought;
His hand will press my own,
To prove the danger gone.

111

MINIATURE LYRICS.

IN THIS FRIGID PLANET.

[_]

(French Air.)

I

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

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.

[_]

(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!

138

AIRS OF HAUT-TON.

AWAY WITH NATURE'S MELODIES.

I

Away with Nature's melodies,
Her roses lack variety,
Her smiles may suit the Hor-
Ticultural Society:
I sing of artificial life,
Where pleasure drains her chalices,
Where fashion cuts out petticoats,
And architecture palaces.

II

Away with brooks, and hooks, and crooks,
Your Phœbes and your Phillises;
The brain-struck bard who doats upon
Each cataract and hill he sees.
In winter time to be sublime,
My city muse embarrasses;
So she shall sing the picturesque,
Of villas and of terraces.

III

Each symptom of the season makes
A London man revive again;
With joy he sees the busy bees
Inhabiting the hive again.
He leaves his cards and kind regards;
Those little sweet formalities,
Expected by all those who show
Their entertaining qualities.

139

IV

He quits the club, the joint concern,
The pigmy tart and sallad, he
Resigns the cruet of white wine,
For warmer hospitality.
And when he sees the plenteous meal,
He well may wonder any one
Could live so many months upon
A four and twenty-penny one.

THIS IS MY ELDEST DAUGHTER, SIR.

I

This is my eldest daughter, Sir,
Her mother's only care;
You praise her face—Oh! Sir, she is,
As good as she is fair.
My angel Jane is clever too,
Accomplishments I've taught her;
I'll introduce you to her, Sir,
This is my eldest daughter.

II

I've sought the aid of ornament,
Bejewelling her curls;
I've tried her beauty unadorn'd,
Simplicity, and pearls:
I've set her off, to get her off,
Till fallen off I've thought her;
Yet I've softly breath'd to all the Beaux,
“This is my eldest daughter.”

III

I've tried all styles of hair dressing,
Madonnas, frizzes, crops,
Her waist I've lac'd, her back I've brac'd,
Till circulation stops:

140

I've padded her, until I have
Into a Venus brought her,
But puffing her has no effect,
This is my eldest daughter.

IV

Her gowns are à la Ackermann,
Her corsets à la Bell;
Yet when the season ends, each beau,
Still leaves his T. T. L.
I patronize each Déjeûné,
Each party on the water;
Yet still she hangs upon my arm!
This is my eldest daughter.

V

She did refuse a gentleman,—
(I own it was absurd,)
She thought she ought to answer No!
He took her at her word!
But she'd say yes if any one
That's eligible sought her;
She really is a charming girl,
Though she's my eldest daughter.

LORD HARRY HAS WRITTEN A NOVEL.

I

Lord Harry has written a Novel,
A story of elegant life;
No stuff about love in a hovel,
No sketch of a commoner's wife:
No trash such as pathos and passion,
Fine feelings, expression, and wit;
But all about people of fashion,
Come look at his caps, how they fit

141

II

Oh! Radcliffe! thou once wert the charmer,
Of girls who sat reading all night;
Thy heroes were striplings in armour,
Thy heroines damsels in white.
But past are thy terrible touches,
Our lips in derision we curl,
Unless we are told how a Duchess,
Convers'd with her cousin the Earl.

III

We now have each dialogue quite full
Of titles—“I give you my word,
My lady you're looking delightful,”
“Oh! dear, do you think so, my Lord!”
“You've heard of the Marquis's marriage,
The bride with her jewels new set,
Four horses, new travelling carriage,
And déjeûné à la fourchette.”

IV

Haut Ton finds her privacy broken,
We trace all her inns and her outs;
The very small talk that is spoken,
By very great people at routs.
At Tenby Miss Jinks asks the loan of
The book from the Innkeeper's wife,
And reads till she dreams she is one of
The leaders of elegant life.

MY WIFE IS VERY MUSICAL.

I

My wife is very musical,
She tunes it over much;
And teazes me with what they call
Her fingering and touch.
She's Instrumental to my pain:
Her very Broadwood quakes!
Her vocal efforts split my brain,
I shiver when she shakes!

142

II

She tells me, with the greatest ease,
Her voice goes up to C,
And proves it, till her melodies,
Are maladies to me.
She's “Isabelling” if I stir,
From where my books lie hid;
Or, “Oh! no we never mention her;”
I wish she never did!

III

Her newest turns turn out to be,
The same we heard last year;
Alas! there's no variety,
In variations here:
I see her puff, I see her pant,
Through ditties wild and strange;
I wish she'd change her notes, they want
Some silver and some change.

I MUST COME OUT NEXT SPRING, MAMA.

I

I must come out next spring, Mama,
I must come out next spring;
To keep me with my governess,
Would be a cruel thing.
Whene'er I view my sisters dress'd,
In leno and in lace,
Miss Twig's apartment seems to be
A miserable place.
I must come out next spring, Mama, &c.

II

I'm very sick of Grosvenor Square,
The path within the rails;
I'm weary of Telemachus,
And such outlandish tales:

143

I hate my French—my vile Chambaud,
In tears I've turn'd his leaves;
Oh! let me Frenchify my hair,
And take to gigot sleeves.
I must come out next spring, Mama, &c.

III

I know quite well what I would say
To partners at a ball;
I've got a pretty speech or two,
And they would serve for all.
If an Hussar,—I'd praise his horse,
And win a smile from him;
And if a naval man, I'd lisp,
“Pray, Captain, do you swim?”
I must come out next spring, Mama, &c.

MY HUSBAND MEANS EXTREMELY WELL.

I

My husband means well,
Good, honest, humdrum man;
And really I can hardly tell,
How first our feuds began.
It was a match of my Mama's,
No match at all, I mean,
Unless declining fifty has
One feature like fifteen.

II

I long'd to leave the prosing set,
Papa, and durance vile,
I long'd to have a landaulet,
And four neat greys in style:
Sir William's steeds were thorough bred,
He wooed me fourteen days,
And I consented, though his head
Was greyer than his greys.

144

III

For, Oh! I pin'd for pineries,
Plate, pin-money, and pearls;
For smiles from Royal Highnesses,
Dukes, Marquisses, and Earls.
Sir William was in Parliament,
And noticed by the King,
So when he made his settlement,
It was a settled thing.

IV

He grumbles now! a woman's whim
Turns night to day, he says,
As if he thought I'd sit with him,
Benighting all my days!
At six he rises, as for me,
At twelve I ring my bell;
Thus we're wound up alternately,
Like buckets in a well.

AWAY WITH THE DAYLIGHT.

I

Away with the daylight, illumine the gas!
The moments of morning too languidly pass;
'Tis only at sunset we find out the worth
Of stars in the Heavens, and eyes upon earth!
Then away with the daylight, &c.

II

You blame me for keeping late hours; oh! fie;
They all become late ones when they are gone by:
And all sorts of hours fly from us so fast,
I'm resolved I will keep them,—as long as they'll last.
Then away with the daylight, &c.

145

I'm “at home” to all the set,
Of exclusives I have met.
If a rival open has her doors,
All the coronets shall pass her doors,
I'm “at home” to the Ambassadors,
Though their names I quite forgot.

IV

I'm “at home” to guardsmen all,
Be they short, or be they tall;
I'm “at home” to men political,
Poetical and critical,
And the punning men of wit, I call
Acquisitions at a ball.

V

Oh! the matchless Collinet,
On his flageolet shall play;
How I love to hear the thrill of it!
Pasta's song think what she will of it,
He will make a quick quadrille of it,
“Dove sono,”—dance away.

149

NOT AT HOME.

I

Not at home! not at home! close my curtain again,
Go and send the intruders away;
They may knock if they will, but 'tis labour in vain,
For I am not made up for the day.
Though my ball was the best of all possible balls,
Though I graced my saloon like a Queen;
I've a head-ache to-day, so if any one calls,
“Not at home!” I am not to be seen.

II

Not at home! not at home! bring strong coffee at two,
But now leave me to doze in the dark;
I'm too pale for my pink! I'm too brown for my blue,
I'm too sick for my drive in the park.
If the man whose attentions are pointed should call,
(Eliza, you know who I mean,)
Oh! say, when he knocks, I'm knock'd up by my ball,
“Not at home!” I am not to be seen.

III

Not at home to Sir John, not at home to the Count,
Not at home till my ringlets are curl'd;
Should the Jeweller call with his little account,
Not at home! not at home for the world!
I, at midnight must shine at three splendid “at homes,”
Then adieu to my morning chagrin,
Close my curtain again, for till candle-light comes,
“Not at home!” I am not to be seen.

150

SONGS FOR THE GRAVE AND GAY.

ROMANCE FOR ME.

I

Romance for me, Romance for me,
Not matter of fact and history,
And prosing volumes all about—
“Once on a time it so fell out.”
Romance for me, Romance for me,
And a nice little bit of a mystery!

II

I hate the noon—give me the moon,
And dewy nights in May or June:
Dull Prudence sighs, and trims her lamp,
And talks about cold, night-air, and damp!
Romance for me, Romance for me,
And a nice little bit of a mystery!

III

Give me the loves of turtle doves,
Who bill and coo in shadowy groves;
Give me Romance, and I'll dispense
With the rodomontade of common sense.
Romance for me, Romance for me,
And a nice little bit of a mystery!

151

THERE IS NOT ONE FAMILIAR FACE.

There is not one familiar face
Where many loved me once!
I speak aloud—the lonely place
Returns no kind response!
Where I and others roved, I see
Another roving race;
Gay smiles are there—but ah! for me,
Not one familiar face!

Where are they now, the young, the gay?
No longer gay and young;
O'er some, too early snatched away,
The cold earth has been flung.
The rapid stream—the shelter'd seat—
Each spot unchanged I trace,
But mournful is the scene—I meet
Not one familiar face!

HE PASS'D!

He pass'd, as if he knew me not,
Unconscious I was near!
And can he then so soon forget
A being once so dear!
No—through composure ill assumed—
I marked the blush of shame;
I saw him tremble when he heard
Another breathe my name.

152

I ask not now a lover's smile—
These eyes are sunk and dim;
But in their ruin, they possess
An eloquence for him;
Though others pass me—from his heart
More sympathy I claim;
When I am gone—perchance he'll weep
Whene'er he hears my name.

I KNOW A SPOT.

I

I know a spot, where we scarce mark the flowers
That Spring scatters round her to tell us she's come;
I know a spot, where the evergreen bowers
Are bright in all seasons—that dear spot is home.

II

I know a spot, where in Winter's rough weather
We laugh while the elements bluster and foam;
I know a spot, where when met thus together
We've smiles for all seasons—that dear spot is home.

OH TEACH MY HEART.

I

Oh! teach my heart that chilling lore
That the world hath taught to Thee.
While I am on the sunny shore,
What are ocean storms to Me?
Oh! some that with me used to sail,
Now wreck'd 'neath the waters lie;
But we have felt no adverse gale,
We will coldly pass them by.

153

II

Yet oh! begone—I'll not be taught
Such a heartless lore as this;
In memory's tomb the charm is sought,
And I scorn such a selfish bliss.
I will not own 'tis weak to weep
When the friends who loved us die,
No—I'll seek the scene of their chill sleep,
And not coldly pass them by.

OH NOT FOR ME!

I

A little breeze waves the willow
That droops across the stream,
And ev'ry infant billow
Sports with a bright sunbeam;
Go forth—go forth—there's joy for thee,
But not for me! oh not for me!

II

I shun the sunny meadow,
I seek the church-yard's gloom,
Beneath the yew tree's shadow,
I weep o'er Laura's tomb.
Go forth—go forth—there's joy for thee,
But not for me! oh not for me!

TEN YEARS AGO!

I

Ten years ago in this place we met,
And we meet as gaily now!
For Time has but little changed as yet,
Youth's joyous lip and brow.

154

Above us, the tree a canopy weaves,
'Tis a fanciful thought I know—
But I almost could think they're the same green leaves
That were here ten years ago!

II

Ten years ago! yet each word and look
Are fresh as if just gone by!
They were traced in memory's treasure book,
And the ink seems scarcely dry!
The mariner's barque has encountered storms,
From his lip no complaint shall flow,
If the barque be mann'd by the same gay forms
That were there ten years ago!

UPBRAID ME NOT.

I

Upbraid me not, I little heed
The bitter words you speak:
The worst reproach that you can use
Is on that faded cheek.
And though a threat would fail to rouse
My feelings or my fears,
This heart is touch'd by your despair,
And trembles at your tears.

II

How well do I remember you
In all your spring of youth,
Believing each fair word and smile
Arose from simple truth.
Upbraid me not—the false one scorns
The threaten'd doom he hears;—
This heart is touched by your despair,
And trembles at your tears.

155

SAY WHERE IS VIRTUE'S DWELLING?

Say where is virtue's dwelling?
Where nuns their beads are telling;
On the earth kneeling,
Cold and unfeeling,
Not where the devotee drearily,
Paces the nunnery, wearily,
At the world railing,
Weeping and wailing;
That is not Virtue's throne.

Where then is Virtue's dwelling?
Where the young heart, excelling,
Little professes,
Meekly possesses
Innocent thoughts alone;
Sharing life's sunshine readily,
Stemming life's tempests steadily;
That may be Virtue's throne.

I CAN NEVER LOVE YOU MORE.

I ne'er will love you less,
But I cannot love you more,
Nor can I now profess
To have warmer vows in store:
Words may not quite express
How sincerely I adore—
I can never love you less,
I can never love you more!

My love is now full grown,
The infant at its birth
Could never know, I own
One quarter of your worth:
But having learnt to bless
Your virtues o'er and o'er,
I can never love you less,
I can never love you more!

156

SONGS OF FASHIONABLE LIFE.

NOT GO TO TOWN THIS SPRING, PAPA!

I

“Not go to town this spring, Papa! Mama! not go to town!
I never knew you so unkind, you chill me with that frown;
Pray, Mama, indulge your pet, entreat Papa to go;
Ah! now I see that you're in tears, we shall succeed I know!”

II

“Alas! my child, I've done my best, and argued all day long;
But men are always obstinate, especially when wrong.
'Tis for my girl I urge the trip, not for myself, alas!
But when I married had I known—no matter, let that pass!”

III

“My dear, you know that I abhor these silly discontents;
You're quite absurd, why don't you make the people pay their rents?
I can't afford a house in town, nay, don't put on that sneer,
For once be happy where you are, we'll go to town next year.”

IV

“Your conduct, Sir, is most absurd, we went last year in June,
But Fanny really had no chance, you took us home so soon:
Sir Charles was evidently struck, I'm sure he would have popp'd,
But then he saw no more of us, and so the matter dropt.”

157

V

“Of course my dear! you stay with us?”—“No, darling, no, not so,
My duties parliamentary, force me alas! to go.”
“You can't afford a house in town!”—“No, sweetest! there's the rub;
For I shall sleep at Batt's you know, and dine, love! at the club.”

VI

“The club! I hate that odious word, the bane of wedded life,
For well the roving husband fares, no matter how the wife!
And then the thing's a vile excuse, which we must take perforce,
‘Where have you been this afternoon?’ Oh! at the club of course!”

VII

“Why rail at clubs, dear Mistress G. you know I never play,
I only meet some college friends and spend a quiet day;
For when at home I nothing hear, but parties, dress, and balls,
Except it's when you scold the maids, or Fanny thrums and squalls.”

VIII

“I hate all clubs! but I abhor the Athenæum most.
They ask the ladies We'nesday nights! it's all a braggart boast:
To shew their gilt and or-molu, each anxious member strives,
And seems to say, snug quarters these, what do we want with wives?”

IX

“Come, dearest Fanny, dry your eyes, a leetle rouge put on;
I'll order you a sweet chapeau from Maradon Carson,
The races and the archeries will very soon be here,
Come, dearest! you shall not be vex'd, we will go to town next year.”

158

THE ARCHERY MEETING.

I

The archery meeting is fixed for the third;
The fuss that it causes is truly absurd;
I've bought summer bonnets for Rosa and Bess,
And now I must buy each an archery dress!
Without a green suit they would blush to be seen,
And poor little Rosa looks horrid in green!

II

Poor fat little Rosa! she's shooting all day!
She sends forth an arrow expertly they say;
But 'tis terrible when with exertion she warms,
And she seems to me getting such muscular arms;
And if she should hit, 'twere as well if she missed it,
Prize bracelets could never be clasp'd on her wrist!

III

Dear Bess with her elegant figure and face,
Looks quite a Diana, the queen of the place;
But as for the shooting—she never takes aim;
She talks so, and laughs so! the beaux are to blame:
She doats on flirtation—but oh! by the bye,
'Twas awkward her shooting out Mrs. Flint's eye!

IV

They've made my poor husband an archer elect;
He dresses the part with prodigious effect;
A pair of nankeens, with a belt round his waist,
And a quiver of course in which arrows are placed;
And a bow in his hand—oh! he looks of all things
Like a corpulent Cupid bereft of his wings!

V

They dance on the lawn, and we mothers, alas!
Must sit on camp stools with our feet in the grass;
My Flora and Bessy no partners attract!
The Archery men are all cross Beaux in fact!
Among the young Ladies some hits there may be,
But still at my elbow two misses I see!

159

I'M JUST EIGHTEEN, AND QUITE A MAN.

I

I'm just eighteen, and quite a man, I'm no Etonian now;
Don't call me boy! such liberties I never will allow,
One's own relations bore one so; when we go out to dine,
I wish my mother would not say “John, don't take too much wine.”

II

My face is smooth, but bear's grease brings mustachios and a tuft;
I know my figure's rather slight, but then my coat is stuff'd;
My legs are long, and if they are as straight as my father's staff,
In black cloth trousers what's the use of having any calf?

III

Said Lady Trippet when she asked my mother to her ball,
If your young people are at home, I beg you'll bring them all,
The odious term included me! I'll stay at home, I vow.
“Young people” means the boys and girls, I'm no young person now.

IV

My sister Kate in confidence has told me that Miss King
Has raved about me, ever since she saw me in the spring;
Poor girl! I must contrive to be less pleasant if I can,
And Kate must tell her candidly I'm not a marrying man.

FOR FIFTEEN SPRINGS I HAVE BEEN OUT.

I

For fifteen springs I have been out, and I am thirty-three!
I never get proposals now, what can the reason be?
All strangers guess me twenty one and praise me to the skies,
Because I have such pearly teeth and animated eyes.

160

II

Would none but strangers saw me now! Alas it is my lot
To dwell where I have always dwelt, half rooted to the spot!
Children who shared my childish sports have children of their own,
And brats I once look'd down upon, are men and women grown!

III

Last week a gallant son of Mars invited me to dance:
We laughed, we talked! I really thought once more I had a chance!
At length he said “My dear Miss Smith, you don't remember me!
I'm William Jones, twelve years ago, you danced me on your knee!”

IV

When fashionably dress'd, some friend exclaims “Miss Smith I know
You must remember sleeves like these, at least ten years ago.”
The sweetest fruit is that which hangs the longest on the tree,
For fifteeen springs I have been out, and I am thirty three!

WHAT IS LONDON'S LAST NEW LION?

I

What is London's last new lion? Pray inform me if you can;
Is't a woman of Kamschatka or an Otaheite man?
For my conversazione, you must send me something new,
Don't forget me! Oh I sigh for the éclat of a début!

II

I am sick of all the “minstrels,” all the “brothers” this and that;
Who sing sweetly at the parties, while the ladies laugh and chat;
And the man who play'd upon his chin is passé I suppose,
So try and find a gentleman who plays upon his nose.

161

III

Send half a dozen authors, for they help to fill a rout,
I fear I've worn the literary lionesses out!
Send something biographical, I think that fashion spreads,
But do not send a poet, till you find one with two heads.

IV

The town has grown fastidious; we do not care a straw
For the whiskers of a bandit, or the tail of a bashaw!
And travellers are out of date, I mean to cut them soon,
Unless you send me some one who has travell'd to the moon.

V

Oh! if you send a singer, he must sing without a throat!
Oh! if you send a player, he must harp upon one note!
I must have something marvellous, the marvel makes the man;
What is London's last new lion? pray inform me if you can.

THE LAST MAN OF THE SEASON.

I

Behold the last man of the season
Left pacing the park all alone,
He'll blush if you ask him the reason,
Why he with the rest is not gone?
He'll see you with shame and with sorrow,
He'll smile with affected delight;
He'll swear he leaves London to-morrow,
And only came to it last night!

II

He'll tell you that nobles select him
To cheer their romantic retreats,
That friends from all quarters expect him
To stay at their elegant seats.
Invited by all, then, how can he know
Which he should favour or shun;
He's sure of offending so many,
By paying a visit to one.

162

III

He'll say that the Yacht Club implore him
To cruise in their exquisite ships:
That ladies of fashion quite bore him
To join in their wandering trips:
That stewards of all races entreat him
To go to them; what can he do?
So odd you should happen to meet him,
So strange as he's just passing through.

IV

In town, in the month of September,
We find neither riches nor rank;
In vain we look out for a member
To give us a nod or a frank.
Each knocker in silence reposes,
In every mansion you find
One dirty old woman who dozes,
Or peeps through the dining-room blind!

V

Then hence, thou last man of the season;
Lest fashion the outrage should blab!
Shrink back as if guilty of treason
Within the dark depths of thy cab.
If money be wanting, go borrow,
Remain—and thy character's lost!
Go print thy departure to-morrow:
“Sir Linger from Longs to the coast!”

163

SONGS FROM A FOREIGN LAND.

OH! THIS WORLD OF OURS.

I

Oh! this world of ours,
With the path that leads to death,
With the thinly scatter'd flowers,
And the cold, cold, ice beneath!
And the warm hearts we have met,
But to lose them and to mourn;
And the ever sad regret,
For what can never return!
Oh! this world of shame and sin,
This weary world of ours;
The canker worm is at work within
The fairest of her flowers.

II

Think of earthly treasure
As a thing that cannot last;
Oh! judge of future pleasure
By the false joys of the past;
Thou wilt learn how to disdain
All that mortals covet most,
Slow to grasp what thou may'st gain,
Slow to mourn what thou hast lost.
Oh! this world of shame and sin,
This weary world of ours;
The canker worm is at work within
The fairest of her flowers.

164

NEVER, MY CHILD, FORGET TO PRAY.

I

Never, my child, forget to pray,
Whate'er the business of the day.
If happy dreams have bless'd thy sleep,
If startling fears have made thee weep,
With holy thoughts begin the day;
And ne'er, my child, forget to pray.

II

Pray Him, by whom the birds are fed,
To give to thee thy daily bread;
If wealth his bounty should bestow,
Praise Him from whom all blessings flow.
If He who gave should take away,
Oh! ne'er, my child, forget to pray.

III

A time may come when thou wilt miss
A father's and a mother's kiss,
And then, my child, perchance thou'lt see,
Some who in pray'r ne'er bend their knee;
From such examples turn away,
And ne'er, my child, forget to pray.

WHY AT THAT MERRY STRAIN.

I

Why at that merry strain do my tears flow?
Because alas! in vain,
I would recall again
The friend with whom I heard it long ago.
And thus tho' 'tis a measure
That speaks to thee of pleasure,
To me it hath a melancholy tone,
And whispers joy is gone—for ever gone.

165

II

Yet oh! that merry strain is still my choice,
I cannot call it pain,
I seem to hear again
The murmur of a dear familiar voice.
And thus tho' 'tis a measure
That speaks to thee of pleasure,
To me it hath a melancholy tone,
And whispers joy is gone—for ever gone.

OH! CALL IT NOT FOLLY.

I

Oh! call it not folly, you libel good spirits,
He surely is wisest whose heart is most gay,
Who looks on mankind but to find out the merits
Of those who may chance to be thrown in his way.
I know that you think me a volatile being,
In truth I am more apt to hope than to fear,
And why should I darken the present, for seeing
A far distant cloud which may never come near?

II

Oh! if it be folly, why should you endeavour
To end a delusion so happy for me;
Ne'er teach me your wisdom, but suffer me ever
To search out the bright side of all that I see.
Why tell me how changing is woman's affection,
Why tell me how fleeting the friendship of man;
Both please me, and therefore I see no objection
To think them faithful—as long as I can.

166

I LOVE TO PACE THE RUIN'D CELL.

I

I love to pace the ruin'd cell
Where cloister'd monks were wont to dwell,
They heard the tolling of the bell
With parade of sanctity.
I view the wild flow'r on the wall,
Their marble tombs neglected fall,
And with the psalmist say that all,
All—all, is vanity!

II

Though built for penitence and pray'r,
Unholy thoughts have enter'd there
And secret sin must ever share,
The secret misery.
More happy and more holy they,
Who purely live, and meekly pray,
And shun a proud, yet false display,
For all, all is vanity!

OH! VIRTUE KNOWS NO HOPELESS GRIEF.

I

Oh! virtue knows no hopeless grief,
'Tis sin that must despair;
The true believer finds relief
In solitary pray'r;
And faith will take her holy flight,
To realms beyond the tomb;
They will not madly mourn the blight,
Who knows how frail the bloom.

167

II

Then say not to a hopeless lot
We're fetter'd from our birth,
It would be hopeless, had we not
A hope beyond the earth:
The infidel may well despond,
When sorrow's tear he sheds,
His bosom knows no hope beyond
The dust on which he treads.

FILL PLEASURE'S BOWL.

I

Fill pleasure's bowl at Lethe's stream,
And I'll be gay at last;
The draught that makes the future bright,
Must drown the dreary past.
But fill me not the bowl with wine,
I shun the dull excess;
For that which makes you light of heart
My spirits would depress.

II

Oh! you see around the board,
The friends you wish to meet;
Where once the smile of friendship shone,
You'll view no vacant seat;
Their laughing mirth to one so blest
You pleasure will impart;
And songs of love are sure to find
An echo in your heart.

III

Then, fill me not the bowl with wine,
But fill at Lethe's stream,
Drive sad regret from daily thought,
And from my troubled dream:

168

Let unawaken'd mem'ry lie,
As at an infant's birth;
And hope again may make me prize
The future scenes of earth.

IV

But no,—it is an idle thought,
I ask the boon in vain;
I never at the social board
Can be a guest again;
Their laughing mirth to one so sad
New sadness will impart,
And songs of love are sure to find
An echo in my heart.

SIMILITUDES FOR WOMAN.

I

They err, who seek in earth or air
Similitudes for woman;
Or in the sea, for nothing there
Is half so good, or half so fair,
Her worth is too uncommon,
For us to find a simile
In all the earth,—the air,—the sea.

II

Go cull the roses of the earth,
The pearls beneath the ocean;
But rose and pearl are little worth
Fair woman's cheek when flushed with mirth,
Or pale with sad emotion.
Ah no—there is no simile,
For her, in earth,—or air,—or sea.

169

III

Go gaze upon the deep blue sky,
In summer's sweetest weather;
Then look on woman's bright blue eye,
And tell the bard you wonder why,
He names the two together!
In her fair face her mind we see,
For that there is no simile.

COULD SORROW KILL.

I

Could sorrow kill, you would not see me here,
But 'gainst my will,
I linger still,
With none my path to cheer.
And am I wrong to wish for a release,
To shun the throng,
And dance, and song,
And sigh for peace.
If wrong it be, then woe is me!
The crime's akin to misery.

II

“Be comforted,” you say with kind intent,
Nor would I shed
Tears for the dead,
The pure, the innocent.
But I am wrong in being thus subdued,
Whose love most strong,
Encouraged long,
Met base ingratitude!
If wrong it be, then woe is me!
The crime's akin to misery.

170

LOVE LIKE THE WEARY BIRD.

I

There's a time when we feel the want of friends,
The early one's the best,
When love, like a weary bird, descends
To find a place of rest;
And finds on all the earth not one
Familiar spot to rest upon.

II

The snow may cover each once green tree,
The bird, alas! finds no repose;
And love as sad a change may see,
Hearts chill'd by worldly snows!
With weary wing the bird must fly,
And wounded love must soar on high!

171

SONGS OF THE OLD CHATEAU.

THE TAPESTRY WAVES IN THE BREEZE OF THE NIGHT.

I

The tapestry waves in the breeze of the night,
And the figures it bears, in the pale moonlight,
Seem frowning upon me,—I tremble with fear.
Dim shadows I see, and low murmurs I hear!
My lamp is expiring—Oh, speed, my love, speed!
I listen in vain for the tramp of his steed.

II

Hark! hark! 'tis the bell of the castle tolls One,
The silence how deep now the echoes are gone!
And, hush! in the gallery, near and more near,
A slow hollow footstep distinctly I hear.
My lamp is expiring—Oh, speed, my love, speed!
I listen in vain for the tramp of his steed.

III

The door of my chamber wide open is thrown,
A figure stands there like a statue of stone:
It raises its helmet—I laugh at my fear,
'Tis my lover I view—'tis my lover I hear!
My lamp's fading glimmer no longer I heed,
I listen no more for the tramp of his steed.

172

I'VE HEARD MY OWN DEAR MOTHER SING.

I

I've heard my own dear mother sing a song of other times;
'Twas one she valued more than all her store of ballad rhymes.
The theme was one that's often sung—the faithlessness of man;
I cannot tell the story now, but thus the burden ran:
Beware, beware, O ladies fair,
Of man's deceit!—beware.

II

I wonder'd why my mother wept, for then she still was young;
Yet, with a touching earnestness, these warning lines she sung:
I used to think, “Man may be false, but what is that to us?”
Yet, when I said, “Come sing to me,” her burden still ran thus;
Beware, beware, O ladies fair,
Of man's deceit!—beware.

III

I never more shall hear that song from those dear lips again,
But in my mind remember'd still those warning words remain.
I thought not of them when I heard a lover's ardent vow;
But, oh! my mother! feelingly I sing that burden now:
Beware, beware, O ladies fair,
Of man's deceit!—beware.

L'ESPERANCE.

I

Who gazes so long on each glittering light
That beams from the walls of yon castle to-night:
Its lord, if he knew that Sir Leon is near,
Would watch his fair child with suspicion and fear.

173

She smiles at the feast where gay nobles are met,
But she thinks of the knight she was told to forget.
Sir Leon be bold, never think of mischance,
Trust to honour and truth, L'Espérance, L'Espérance!

II

The minstrels come forth, and light measures they play,
Each guest wears a mask and fantastic array;
The peasant and prince meet to laugh and to jest,
And the lord of the east woes the lass of the west.
A pilgrim in grey to fair Emmeline kneels,
Whose mask scarcely veils the delight that she feels.
Sir Leon be bold, lead her forth to the dance,
Trust to honour and truth, L'Espérance, L'Espérance!

III

The morning is come, and with helm, spear, and shield,
The nobles are seen riding forth to the field;
The knight who prevails with his lance and his sword,
Is to marry the child of the castle's proud lord.
Each rival o'erthrown on the earth fainting lies,
While a stranger kneels down for the conqueror's prize;
Sir Leon is bold, and he wields a good lance,
Here's to honour and truth, L'Espérance, L'Espérance!

GUESS THE NAME.

I

I have drain'd the cup they brought me
In the banquet hall of mirth;
I have breath'd the name they taught me
As the dearest name on earth;
But in secret I abhor it,
Such a pledge would chill the wine,
I've a health far dearer for it;
Guess the name—dear love, 'tis thine!

174

II

I have been where bright eyes glancing,
Shamed the gems that shone around;
Where the young and gay were dancing
To the lute's melodious sound;
But my constant heart still shrinking
From the charms they deemed divine,
Of a dearer name was thinking;
Guess that name—dear love, 'tis thine!

III

I have sought the distant places
Fam'd for beauty's 'witching glance,
From Circassia's languid graces
To the laughing dames of France:
But my thoughts still homeward flying
To seek out their chosen shrine,
For a dearer name were sighing;
Guess the name—dear love, 'twas thine!

I WORE THE ROBES OF A NOBLE BRIDE.

I

I wore the robes of a noble bride,
And a white wreath bound my hair;
I knelt by my own true lover's side,
And the priest was standing there;
But the ring fell from my trembling hand,
And the bridegroom himself was dumb,
For we heard the tramp of a warlike band,
And the sound of a distant drum.

II

Oh! little we thought of the bridal feast,
I wept on my bridal day;
The gates were closed, and every guest
Turn'd mournfully away:

175

Despair's unseen resistless wand
My senses did benumb;
And I heard the tramp of a warlike band,
And the sound of a distant drum.

III

My husband kissed my pallid cheek,
And said he would return.
I tried to smile—I could not speak,
My heart was too forlorn.
I know he fell in a foreign land,
Though they say that he soon will come,
For I hear no tramp of a warlike band,
And no sound of a distant drum.

TELL ME THAT HE LIVES.

I

Tell me that he lives and I'll smile again,
Though his limbs be gall'd by a tyrant's chain,
Time may burst the link, captives may go free,
Tell me that he lives and give life to me.
Wounded he may pine in a foreign land,
And his sword may fall from his nerveless hand;
He may live to wear Fame's unfading wreath,
Oh! my constant heart could not bear his death.

II

Tell me that he lives; I can bear to know
He is false to me—say if it be so?
Not one selfish thought lingers in my breast;
Tell me that he lives, I'll endure the rest.
Pallid is my cheek and my eye is dim,
He would scarcely know her who weeps for him;
He may live to wear Fame's unfading wreath,
Oh! my constant heart could not bear his death.

176

THOSE JOYOUS VILLAGE BELLS.

I

Oh! I cannot bear the sound
Of those joyous village bells.
Mournful music should be found
In the halls where sorrow dwells.
Once for me those bells were rung,
And the bridal song was sung;
Wretched is the bride who hears
Sounds like those with tears.

II

Now I see the laughing train,
Youths and maidens dancing forth;
I'll not look on them again,
Eyes like mine would mar their mirth.
Once for me those bells were rung,
And the bridal song was sung;
Wretched is the bride who hears
Sounds like those with tears.

COME DECK ME FOR THE DANCE AGAIN.

I

Come deck me for the dance again,
For I will be the brightest there;
Bring silken robe and jewell'd chain,
And blooming roses for my hair.
The world again shall deem me gay,
My sombre weeds aside are thrown;
You bid me smile—and I obey,
But solitude is still my own.

177

II

I know my feelings must be blamed
By those who never felt like me;
They think a moment may be named,
When grief shall set the mourner free;
The harp, so long unstrung, they say,
Should then resume its wonted tone.
You bid me smile, and I obey,
But solitude is still my own.

THINK NOT OF ME, POOR PAGE.

I

My page, look not wistfully
Upon thy lady's cheek,
For she can read in thy moist eye
The grief thou fain wouldst speak.
Thy kindness but augments the pain
It offers to assuage;
Go, seek thy sunny sports again,
Think not of me, poor page.

II

My sadness will but make thee weep;
Thou'lt win no smile from me;
So young a plant 'twere sin to keep
Beneath woe's poison tree.
I love thee, but I send thee forth
A captive from the cage.
I have no other friend on earth,
But heed not that, poor page.

III

III

Come! I think that it would cheer me,
Hopeless as my soul hath been,
To behold thee hover near me,
Pointing to a brighter scene.
Yes,—I feel by thee forgiven
These despairing pangs would cease;
I may dare look up to heaven,
And, though guilty, die in peace!

181

SONGS TO ROSA.

WHEN FIRST WE MET.

I

When first we met, I gaz'd on thee,
As on some spirit from above;
Whose beauty seem'd too pure to be
Profan'd by thoughts of earthly love,
When noble friends around thee mov'd,
And life's most precious gifts were thine
How could I dare confess I lov'd?
How could I hope to call thee mine?

II

But when I saw thy bright eyes seek
For me amid the glitt'ring throng—
When I was told that lovely cheek
Grew paler if I linger'd long;
And when I knew thou didst not shun
The path where I was sure to be,
Was I to blame for loving one
Who deign'd to own her love for me?

III

(Spanish Air.)

I

When the bee from the roses has taken her flight,
When the butterfly closes her wing for the night;
When the dew makes the flower more fragrant and fair:
Then haste to your bower and I will be there.

II

Oh! sages may ponder on wandering stars,
While true lovers wander with tell tale guitars!
I'll sing at that hour your favourite air;
Then haste to the bower and I will be there.

OH! WHAT A PITY!

[_]

(French Air.)

I

Beauty and Love once met in sunny weather,
“Sweet Boy,” she cried, in her persuasive tone;
“Come we will rove through Pleasure's path together,
Oh! what a pity Love should be alone.”

185

II

How could young Love suspect when Beauty sought him,
Sorrow was near! Alas! he's very blind!
Day after day her brightest gifts she brought him,
Oh! what a pity Beauty was so kind!

III

Prudence now call'd, and whisper'd “You must only
Trifle with Love, beware your heart's unhurt.”
Cupid was left to thoughts most sad and lonely;
Oh! what a pity Beauty was a flirt!

IV

Ladies beware before you give a lover
Too many smiles, keep prudence within call;
If sorrow come when your flirtation's over,
Oh! what a pity Love must bear it all!

LILLA'S A LADY.

[_]

(German Air.)

I

The church bells are ringing, the village is gay,
And Lilla is deck'd in her bridal array.
She's woo'd and she's won
By a proud baron's son—
And Lilla's a lady.

II

And see o'er the valley who rides at full speed,
A gallant young knight on a spirited steed,
And why starts the youth
When they tell him the truth—
That Lilla's a lady.

186

III

He's smiling in scorn or he's smiling in jest,
While three snow white lilies he takes from his breast;
“A poor maid,” says he,
“Gave this token to me,—
“But Lilla's a lady.”

IV

“These sweet little lilies that grew in the shade,
Transplanted to sunshine, unnoticed may fade;
Though mere words of course,
You may yet feel their force—
Since Lilla's a lady.”

V

“I came here misled by a false woman's vow.
I will stay to drink health to the baroness now.
And oh! it will be
Quite as pleasant to me—
Since Lilla's a lady.”

VI

“Believe not I'll pine,—no, I travelled so far
For the girl that you seem'd, not the girl that you are;
You are woo'd, you are won
By a proud baron's son—
And Lilla's a lady.”

OH! DO NOT CHIDE ME.

[_]

(Indian Air.)

I

Oh! do not chide me for the tears I shed;
Oh! do not tell me, Rosa is not dead;
Where are the bright eyes that I used to see?
Where are the sweet smiles? They are dead to me!

187

II

Say not that Rosa smiles upon the gay;
Say not her beauty fadeth not away;
Still must I wander where she us'd to be;
Still must I mourn her—she is dead to me!

THE EVERGREEN LEAF.

[_]

(Original Air.)

I

“Farewell!” exclaimed Rosa, “dear Roland away!
My father decrees it, and we must obey;
Yet though I complain not, and bow to his will;
In secret, in silence, I'll think of you still.”

II

“In dreams those dear features before me shall rise;
Your bright sunny hair, and your happy blue eyes:
My love defies all that the future can bring,
Like the evergreen leaf on the emerald ring.”

III

The maiden is borne to a far distant isle,
New friends court her favour, new lovers her smile.
Her tears are forgotten, a stranger is near
Who breathes the fond language of love in her ear!

IV

Jet black are his ringlets and dark is his brow;
Oh! where is her sunny hair'd favourite now?
Alas! is affection so fleeting a thing?
Unlike the green leaf on the emerald ring.

188

V

Can Rosa be faithless? No—dull are the eyes
Of the girl who detects not her lover's disguise:
He darkens the tint of his features in vain,
The expression so dear to her still must remain.

VI

No stranger is there, it is Roland she hears,
And answers his fond vows with eloquent tears.
Then say not that love is a frivolous thing,
'Tis the evergreen leaf on the emerald ring.

GO, ROSA, GO!

[_]

(Original Air.)

I

Go, Rosa, go! at once farewell,
Since faithless I have found thee;
Nay, do not quite destroy the spell,
That my fancy shed around thee.
If thou had'st seem'd, what thou hast prov'd,
I never should have sought thee:
Alas! it was not thee I lov'd,
But the artless girl I thought thee.

II

Go dance with other youths to-night,
Where we have danced together;
Go prove thy heart to be as light
As the down upon thy feather.
Go rove where we have often rov'd,
Go smile as pride hath taught thee;
Alas! it was not thee I lov'd,
But the artless girl I thought thee.

189

BALLADS.

OH! 'TIS THE MELODY.

I

Oh! 'tis the melody
We heard in former years;
Each note recalls to me
Forgotten smiles and tears.
Tears caused by fleeting woes
I then believed severe,
Smiles that were shared by those
Whose smiles were very dear.

Sing then, oh! sing to me,
How sweet each note appears!
Oh! 'tis the melody,
We heard in former years.

II

Ay, I remember well,
When last I heard that lay,
'Twas in a sunny dell,
Just at the close of day.
Garlands of roses made
A roof from bough to bough,
Friends sat beneath the shade—
Alas! where are they now?

Sing then, oh! sing to me, &c.

190

III

Ay, I remember too
Who sweetly sang and play'd,
Yet half ashamed to view
The circle she had made.
Smiling to hear the sound
Of her own voice and lute,
Blushing to look around
On list'ners so mute.

Sing then, oh! sing to me, &c.

THE ROVER'S BRIDE.

I

Oh! if you love me furl your sails,
Draw up your boat on shore;
Come tell me of the midnight gales,
But tempt their might no more.

II

“Oh! stay,” Kate whispered, “stay with me.”
“Fear not” the Rover cried,
“Yon bark shall be a prize for me,
I'll seize it for my bride.”

III

The boat was in pursuit, it flew,
The full sails bent the mast,
Poor Kate well knew the Rover's crew
Would struggle to the last.

IV

Then, ceaselessly, for morning's light
She prayed upon her knees;
For, all the night, the sounds of fight
Were borne upon the breeze.

191

V

When morning came it brought despair,
The Rover's boat was gone!
Kate rent her hair; one bark was there
Triumphant, but alone.

VI

She sought the shore, she braved the storm,
A corpse lay by her side!
She strove to warm the Rover's form,
She kiss'd his lips, and died.

THE SOLDIER'S TEAR.

I

Upon the hill he turned,
To take a last fond look
Of the valley, and the village church,
And the cottage by the brook.
He listen'd to the sounds
So familiar to his ear,
And the soldier leant upon his sword,
And wiped away a tear.

II

Beside that cottage porch,
A girl was on her knees;
She held aloft a snowy scarf,
Which fluttered in the breeze.
She breath'd a prayer for him,
A prayer he could not hear,
But he paused to bless her as she knelt,
And wiped away a tear.

192

III

He turn'd, and left the spot,
Oh! do not deem him weak,
For dauntless was the soldier's heart,
Tho' tears were on his cheek.
Go watch the foremost ranks,
In danger's dark career.
Be sure the hand most daring there
Has wiped away a tear.

WELCOME ME HOME.

I

Gaily the Troubadour
Touch'd his guitar,
When he was hastening
Home from the war.
Singing “From Palestine
Hither I come,
Lady love! Lady love!
Welcome me home.”

II

She for the Troubadour
Hopelessly wept;
Sadly she thought of him,
When others slept;
Singing “In search of thee
Would I might roam,
Troubadour! Troubadour!
Come to my home.”

193

III

Hark! 'twas the Troubadour
Breathing her name,
Under the battlement,
Softly he came,
Singing “From Palestine
Hither I come,
Lady love! Lady love!
Welcome me home.”

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.

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.

199

SONGS FROM FAIRY LAND.

THE MAGICAL MIRROR.

I

“Why wed you not, baron,” once whispered a fairy,
“There's gold in your coffers, why wed you not now?”
“Not yet,” quoth the baron, “'tis best to be wary,
I might make a change for the worse, you'll allow.
My temper's a jealous one; beauty would keep
My mind in a frenzy. I'll look 'ere I leap.”

Once a silly maid exclaimed,
“Children wail and fools grow pale,
Whene'er a fairy sprite is nam'd,
In song or gossip tale.

202

But I laugh at fairy-land,
On its limits let me stand,
I'll make fun of Oberon,
And break his pigmy wand.”

II

Cried a friend, “Thou'rt brave by day,
But at night perhaps I might
Chace thy unbelief away,
And scare thee with a sprite.
Wilt thou, when the clock strikes one,
Seek the fairy glen alone?”
“Yes; agreed, I'll do the deed,
And laugh when it is done.”

III

To the fairy glen she went,
Half afraid to turn her head.
Secretly she did repent
The bargain she had made.
Ev'ry leaf that chanc'd to stir
Seem'd to be a sprite to her,
Bat or owl, or the howl
Of the village cur.

IV

Home she hurried, half asham'd;
What occur'd was never heard,
But when fairy-land is nam'd,
She never says a word.
Some indeed presume to say,
She met a husband young and gay;
Not a sprite; yet her heart that night
Was spirited away.

203

THE INVISIBLE ELVES.

I

The wee Heinzelmanchens were elves of repute,
They watch'd o'er each housewife's domestic pursuit;
The ovens were heated, the chambers were swept
By her pigmy assistants, while soundly she slept;
The proof of their industry shone on her shelves,
Yet none had e'er seen these invisible elves.

II

Dame Bridget, whose spouse was a baker by trade,
Ow'd much to the sprite's supernatural aid.
But curious women, like children, will break
A toy to discover the trick of its make.
“No mortal has seen them,” said she to herself,
“What can they be made of? I must catch an Elf.”

III

All night she sat watching, but not a mouse stirr'd:
All night too she listen'd, but nothing was heard:
They never came near her; she weeps and she prays;
But she toils for herself all the rest of her days.
She paid for her peeping, a common mishap:
Curiosity caught in her own little trap.

YOUNG BRINCAN, BEWARE!

I

Beware of the fairy! young Brincan beware!
Thy cheeks are like roses, and bright is thy hair;
Thy beauty hath charm'd her, beware of her spell;
She is calling thee down to her bright coral cell.
Look not in the water, for danger is there.
Row homeward, row homeward! young Brincan, beware!

204

II

Her spell is upon him; like one who would leap
To the arms of a mistress, he dives in the deep;
Sweet harmonies hail him, he seems to repose
On an emerald pillow as downward he goes:
A fairy receives him—oh! what is so fair
As that beautiful being! Young Brincan beware!

III

Her hair is sea-green, but he heeds not its hue,
When he looks on her eyes of etherial blue.
He loves the fair sea-nymph, forgetting the worth
Of his own betroth'd maiden, the fairest on earth.
'Tis morn, and he leaves her, his boat is still there;
Row homeward, row homeward! Young Brincan, beware!

IV

The spell is dissolved; as he steps on the shore,
He seeks his betroth'd—but she loves him no more!
“Thy hair,” she exclaimed, “is as green as the sea,
And a web-footed man is no lover for me.”
'Tis thus with the fickle, who fond vows forswear,
For Fairy or Woman! so lovers beware!

THE NURSERY TALE.

I

Oh! did you not hear, in your nursery,
The tale that the gossips tell,
Of the two young girls who came to drink,
At a certain fairy well?
The words of the youngest were as sweet
As the smile on her ruby lip;
But the tongue of the eldest seemed to move
As if venom were on its tip!

205

II

At the well a beggar accosted them,
(A sprite in a mean disguise.)
The eldest spoke with a scornful brow,
The youngest with tearful eyes.
Cried the fairy, “Whenever you speak, sweet girl,
Pure gems from your lips shall fall;
But whenever you utter a word, proud maid,
From your tongue shall a serpent crawl.”

III

And have you not met these sisters oft,
In the haunts of the old and young,
The first with her pure and unsullied lip,
The last with her serpent tongue?
Yes! the first is Goodnature; diamonds bright
On the darkest theme she throws;
And the last is Slander, leaving the slime
Of the snake where'er she goes.

THE PERI AND THE PAGE.

I

A Peri, o'ercome by a Deev, was left
In a golden cage confin'd;
On the topmost branch of the loftiest tree,
It rock'd in the stormy wind.
A Page through the forest was prancing forth,
But he paus'd, when the Peri cried,
“Oh! give me liberty, gentle youth,
And I'll be thy lady bride.”

II

“Nay, I have a love of my own,” he said,
“A maiden of low degree;
I'll let thee loose; but, beauteous sprite,
Thou art not the bride for me.”

206

“I'll give thee the wealth of the world,” she cried.
“No, the wealth of the world were vain;
Yet tho' I can never be thine, fair sprite,
I will break thy golden chain.”

III

He climb'd the tree, and the Peri was free;
But ere she her thanks could speak,
With joyous speed, he mounted his steed,
The home of his love to seek.
“Oh! dearer to me is thy constancy,
Than thy love could have been,” she cried;
“I promise thee health, I promise thee wealth,
Then away to thy chosen bride.”

I'VE FAIRY GIFTS ROUND ME.

I

I've fairy gifts round me, to win back a lover,
Who flies from the fond one, still faithful to him.
I know I am chang'd, but these spells will recover
The heart that is sad and the eye that is dim.
Oh! if I was pale when he last looked upon me,
My tears in his absence had banished my bloom;
Yet would I had smil'd, for I fear he will shun me,
His gay spirit shrinks from reproaches and gloom.

II

But never again shall he see me dejected,
My grief when he frowns shall lie deep in my breast;
I'll bathe my hot brow with the dews I've collected
From rings on the meadows by fairy feet prest;

207

My hair I'll adorn with each delicate flower
That buds in the moonlight, for legends will prove
When man is inconstant, such wreaths have the power
To bring back the beauty that first won his love.

FAIRY FAVOURS.

I

I have dreamt of fairy favours,
Of the gold that lies conceal'd,
Where no outward mark betrays it
In the poor man's sterile field.
Is not Industry the fairy,
Who can call those favours forth,
And can raise a golden harvest
From the bosom of the earth?

II

I have dreamt of fairy favours,
Of the spell that will secure
True love thro' all its trials,
Still as holy and as pure:
Is not Constancy the fairy?
Is not Innocence her spell?
Yes, a paradise she raises,
Where true love delights to dwell.

III

I have dreamt of fairy favours,
Of a home of perfect bliss;
No monarch has a palace
Half so beautiful as this!
And is not Content the fairy
Who beholds the map unfurl'd;
And points to her own dwelling
As the best in all the world?

208

THE SPECTRE-LIKE TREE.

I

Under the spectre-like yew,
Spreading its boughs o'er the heath,
Sat the lone Banshee; I knew
Her wail was the herald of death!
'Twas not a summons for me—
When she wept under the spectre-like tree.

II

Wildly my lover I sought,
Scar'd by that desolate wail.
Smiling he came—yet I thought
Ne'er had I seen him so pale;
Oh! how it shock'd me to see,
Why she wept under the spectre-like tree!

III

Now he is laid on his bier,
Far from all sorrow and pain,
And it would please me to hear
The voice of the Banshee again.
Come with a summons to me,
Come to weep under the spectre-like tree!

IS NOT THIS A HAUNTED GROVE?

I.

“Is not this a haunted grove?
Are not fairies round me playing?
Hear a maid who seeks her love;
Tell me whither is he straying!”
“Is he straying!”

209

“Mock me not, but prythee tell,
Is there still some kindness in him?
Show me by some fairy spell,
How to woo him, how to win him!”
“How to win him!”

II.

“Tell me then the truth at once:
Tell me am I doom'd to doubt him;
Give, oh! give some kind response,
For I cannot live without him!”
“Live without him!”

Mary thus her lot bewails,
Still invokes some sylph or fairy.
Ye who laugh at fairy tales,
Much I fear you'll laugh at Mary.
Laugh at Mary.

III.

She had faith in pigmy sprites;
And when'er she miss'd her lover,
Sallied forth in moonlight nights,
Calling them to catch the rover.
Catch the rover.

At her elbow, he ere long,
Gently whispers something soothing;
Mary's sorrow, like my song,
Both begins and ends in nothing.
Ends in nothing.

210

SONGS OF THE SEASONS.

SONGS FOR SPRING MORNINGS.

I. THOUGH THE SUMMER MAY HAVE ROSES.

Tho' the summer may have roses
That outshine the buds of Spring,
Deeper shadows in the forest,
Blither birds upon the wing.
When I see a bright Spring morning,
After long, long days of gloom,
Summer seems to sport around me
In his infancy of bloom.

Oh! 'tis sad to see the splendour
Of the summer pass away,
When the night is always stealing
Precious moments from the day:
But in Spring each lengthened evening
Tempts us farther off from home,
And if summer has more beauty,
All that beauty is to come.

It is thus in manhood's summer,
That the heart too often grieves,
Over friends lost prematurely,
Like the fall of blighted leaves;

211

But, life's spring-time is far sweeter,
When each green bud that appears
May expand into a blossom,
To enliven future years.

II. FASHION AND NATURE.

Cried Fashion once, that idle queen,
“The Spring I love, the balmy Spring!
When trees put on their palest green,
And feather'd songsters learn to sing!”
Dame Nature heard her, and replied
“If thus you speak, our quarrel ends,
Henceforth we'll wander side by side,
Fashion and Nature now are friends.”

So Fashion chose a flowing gown,
Her flimsy fancies to conceal;
And simple Nature went to town
To visit Fashion en famille.
She sought her in the gay saloon,
Where she had revelled all the night:
But Fashion did not rise at noon,
Her rouge looks best at candlelight.

Nature found nothing to her taste;
She pined with Fashion by her side;
Her own flowers in vases placed,
Like birds in cages, drooped and died.
To save her life she ran away,
And Fashion did not much regret
Her simple guest;—so since that day
Fashion and Nature have not met.

212

III. FAIREST! WE HAIL THEE QUEEN OF THE MAY!

Queen of the May! how sweet is thy throne!
Nature herself hath lent thee her own.
Covet not gold and jewels of state;
Heed not their lustre; think of their weight!
Light are thy crown and regal array:
Fairest! we hail thee Queen of the May!

Queen of the May how gay is thy court,
Light-hearted beings thither resort;
Covet not halls that sparkle by night,
False are their garlands, false is their light!
Sunshine illumes thy festival day;
Fairest! we hail thee Queen of the May!

IV. COME OVER THE LAKE, LOVE!

Come over the lake, Love! come over the lake;
In yonder green island the Elves are awake,
Our bugles they'll hear—and their haunts they'll forsake:
Oh! blow the horn! oh! blow the horn!
Hark! fairies are replying!

Nay, laugh not at fairies, a dangerous jest;
They sport in these valleys when we are at rest;
I'll call them—you'll hear them—let this be the test:
Oh! blow the horn!—oh! blow the horn!
Hark! fairies are replying!

You say 'tis an echo—perhaps you can tell
What echoes are made of, and shew where they dwell?
If not—why my fairies at least do as well!
Oh! blow the horn!—oh! blow the horn!
Hark! fairies are replying!

213

V. ALAS! YOUTH'S GAY SPRING MOMENTS PASS.

Alas!
Youth's gay Spring moments pass
Like sand through old Time's glass;
Where pleasure throws
Her sweetest rose,
To morrow comes a grief,
To spread the yellow leaf!
The fairest things
Have fleetest wings!
What then!—gay hearts to-night
May catch them in their flight.

Heigho!
How soon the step of woe
Mars beauty's sunlit snow!
E'en smiles are made
Old Time to aid,
For do not wrinkles tell
Where dimples used to dwell?
The fairest things
Have fleetest wings;
What then!—gay hearts to-night
May catch them in their flight.

VI. THE SPRING TIME OF THE YEAR.

Spring flowers are no longer
What spring flowers used to be;
Their fragrance and their beauty
Cannot give delight to me:

214

The cowslip and the primrose
And the violet are here—
Ah! why am I dejected
In the Spring time of the year?

How well do I remember
When I chased dull sleep away,
To give an early welcome
To the merry month of May!
My footstep on the meadow
Was the first to rouse the deer,
Ah! then I hailed each blossom
In the Spring time of the year!

All seasons are delightful
In life's gay unclouded spring,
We sport among the flowers
Like wild birds upon the wing:
But when life's bloom is over,
And no friendly smile is near,
Oh! dreary as December
Is the Spring time of the year!

VII. UP! MARCH AWAY!

Shall the warrior rest, when so near him
The flag of the foe is unfurled?
No! the sweets of repose shall not cheer him,
'Till that flag from its station be hurled.
His night-cloak round him folding,
He will watch the dawn of day,
And the first sun's beam beholding,
He will cry—“Up! March away!”

In the night as his watch-path he paces,
He pauses and leans on his spear,
And he thinks of kind friends and loved places,
'Till down his pale cheek steals a tear!

215

Awhile with deep devotion,
For the absent he will pray;
But how transient his emotion,
Hark! he cries—“Up! March away!”

VIII. THE FORWARD SPRING.

Spring once was impatient of schooling and nursing,
And grew very fine for a season so young;
Her playthings she scorned, artificially forcing
The charms of her person, the wit of her tongue.
Her snowdrops neglecting, her roses displaying,
And singing as summer birds only should sing;
She smiled, and the world her attractions surveying,
Declared it had ne'er seen so forward a Spring!

But soon this same world, which is never unwilling
To lower pretensions it sanctioned in haste,
Perceived that her mornings and evenings were chilling,
And all her forced fruit was found wanting in taste.
“Alas!” cried the young year, “the charms that I boasted
If lavished too early, too early decay,
I've lost the pure pleasure of Spring, and exhausted
The green leaves that might have made Summer look gay.”

And now I will venture to look for a moral,
In this little song, which so simple appears;
Go childhood and play with your bells and your coral,
And sigh not for pleasures unfit for your years:
Though infancy, tutored by art prematurely,
May imitate man in look, action, and tone;
Life's Summer will not be forestall'd, and, too surely,
The charm of life's Spring-time for ever is gone!

216

SONGS FOR SUMMER DAYS.

I. EACH SEASON POSSESSES A PLEASURE FOR ME.

Each season possesses a pleasure for me,
I mark not time's progress when gazing on thee;
But if I must single out one from the rest,
I think that for lovers the Summer is best.
Spring mornings are pretty when zephyrs fly forth,
To scatter sweet blossoms all over the earth;
But Spring smiles too often with snow on her breast,
So I think that for lovers the Summer is best.

The Autumn is gay with the gold of her sheaves,
The blush of her fruit, and the tint of her leaves;
But her sun hastens daily more soon to the west,
So I think that for lovers the Summer is best,
The Winter is merry in festival hall,
But false are the garlands that hang on his walls;
And 'tis not in crowds that the heart is most blest,
So I think that for lovers the Summer is best.

II. THE OLDEN TIME.

In the olden time,
Young lovers roved in these gay bowers:
And these echoes oft
Have murmured vows as fond as ours.
Yes, the old who gaze on us
Once sported thus.
Eyes were bright,
Hearts were light,
In the summer days when they were young.

217

Where are all the brave
Who won the laurels of those days?
Where are all the fair,
And poets, too, who sang their praise?
Oh! the harp—the smile—the plume—
Lie in the tomb.
Some remain
Who, in vain,
Mourn the Summer days when they were young.

III. SEE THE SUMMER LEAVES ARE COMING.

See the Summer leaves are coming
On the plants and on the trees,
And the birds that have been roaming
Under brighter skies than these.
Breezes breathe so soft, they only
Curl the surface of the sea;
But my heart feels sad and lonely,
Without thee, love! without thee.

Come, and I will weave you bowers,
Cool and shady all day long.
Ev'ry path is full of flowers,
Every grove is full of song.
Sunny, when we roved together,
E'en the winter seemed to me;
And how sad is summer weather,
Without thee, love! without thee.

218

IV. THE OLD OAK TREE.

The old oak tree our shade shall be,
And there you shall sing gay songs to me;
Each sparkling glass that we fill to-night,
Reflecting a smile, shall beam more bright;
And we'll drink to those that we fain would see
Under the shade of the old oak tree.

Come Fashion and see our canopy!
The gay green leaves of the old oak tree.
The setting sun, and the rising moon,
Together shall light our sweet saloon.
We've the song of the bird and the hum of the bee,
Under the shade of the old oak tree.

Oh, let there not be a fire for me
Kindled against the old oak tree!
Too many, alas! will wound the stem
Of the tree that in kindness sheltered them.
No brand shall be lighted for you or for me
Under the shade of the old oak tree.

V. COME TO ME, LOVE, AND TELL ME ALL THAT GRIEVES THEE.

Come to me, love, and tell me all that grieves thee,
Come to me, love, more welcome than the gay;
Thy smiles were mine, and now that pleasure leaves thee,
Mine be the task to wipe thy tears away.

See yon fair rose,—how many triflers woo it,
When morning sheds her sunshine and perfume;
But like the bird that sings at midnight to it,
I'll be thy guard, dear love, in hours of gloom.

219

VI. I'D BE YOUR SHADOW.

I'd be your shadow, my own dear love!
Your steps I'd follow where'er you rove:
Then I'd resemble the form you wear—
How cold a copy of one so fair!
But I'd not leave you when joy is gone,
Though there's no shadow when there's no sun.

I'd be your echo, my own dear love!
Unseen I'd follow where'er you rove.
Each word you utter, I would repeat,
How vain to rival a voice so sweet!
But I'd be with you when dark days come,
Though faithless echo in storms is dumb.

VII. OH! WHEN THE TIDE WAS OUT.

Oh when the tide was out last night,
In yonder bay we roved,
We gathered shells, and on the sand
We wrote the names we loved.

And now we wander forth, and find
No friendly records there.
The morning tide effaced the words
We traced with so much care.

'Tis thus with all whose glory rests
Upon the sands of earth;
As vain is all the pomps of pride,
As vain the smiles of mirth.

220

The ceaseless tide at intervals
Will rush o'er all the scene;
'Twill pass—and not a record then
Will tell where they have been!

VIII. DEAREST INFANT, PURE AS FAIR.

Dearest infant, pure as fair,
Whilst I watch thy closing eye,
Thus my babe, thy mother's pray'r
Mingles with her lullaby:
Oh be content
And innocent!

When thy lip's uncertain sound
Ripens into words at length;
When thy foot upon the ground,
Steps relying on its strength:
Oh be content
And innocent!

When the tempting world shall come
With the garland that she waves,
Some without a thorn, but some
Hiding poison in their leaves:
Oh be content
And innocent!

221

SONGS FOR AUTUMN EVENINGS.

I. NOT A SUMMER FRIEND WOULD STAY.

My garden once displayed
Each fair leaf'd summer flow'r,
And fragrant tendrils made
A curtain for my bow'r.
They are gone! they are gone!
It will never more be gay;
When I lost the bright sun,
Not a summer bud would stay!

My garden has been full
Of friends in former hours,
Who gaily came to cull
The fairest of my flow'rs.
They are gone! they are gone!
It will never more be gay,
When I lost the bright sun,
Not a summer friend would stay!

II. HARVEST HOME!

The last golden sheaf is borne off from the meadow,
The reaper is gone for his labour is done;
The harvest that grew where no cloud threw its shadow
Was gathered to-day in the smiles of the sun.
See! see! the tankard's foam!
Hark! hark! 'tis harvest home!

222

Youth trips to the sound of the pipe and the tabor,
While innocent childhood looks on with his laugh,
And happy old age tells some listening neighbour
Of festivals past, as he leans on his staff.
See! see! the tankard's foam!
Hark! hark! 'tis harvest home!

III. THOUGH AT EACH STEP WE PRESS SOME WITHERED LEAF.

Though at each step we press some withered leaf,
Like a young joy, by time, turned to a grief.
Though all is dreary now, never forget
We may find sunshine and summer leaves yet!

Winter will yield up his sceptre to May;
She will weep o'er it and throw it away;
June will soon follow, his sunny hair drest
With the gay coronet summer loves best.

Oh! 'twill be thus with this sad time of ours:
May comes with weeping, but June comes with flow'rs;
Trees that around us seem withering now
Soon will wear blossoms on every bough.

IV. WAKE, DEAREST LOVE! THE MOON IS BRIGHT.

Wake, dearest love! the moon is bright;
Dream not away so sweet a night;
When clouds come on, repose at ease,
But do not waste nights fair as these:

223

The very birds are all awake!
The swan is roused and skims the lake!
The world's so bright, the summer bee
Believes 'tis noon!—then come to me!

Oh! 'tis the time for serenades!
When the moon peeps thro' orange shades,
Guitars and voices gain a tone
Of sweet enchantment, not their own!
There's a wild cadence in the breeze!
A murmur in the trembling trees!
The silver ripple of the sea
Has music in it!—come to me!

And few such nights are left us now:
The yellow tint is on the bough;
The farewell whisper summer gives
Just curls the lake, just fans the leaves.
Too soon will wane the harvest moon,
The latest rose will fade too soon;
But in my heart there still will be
A summer—if you'll come to me.

V. SEE THE MONARCHS OF THE FOREST.

See the monarchs of the forest
Lose their summer beauty now,
And the yellow tints of autumn
Mingle on each waving bough.
Though these colours are more varied
Than their former green array,
Yet I love them not—they tell me
That all fair things pass away.

224

Oh! I love the spring time better,
With her buds that promise bloom,
For she daily gives some token
That a summer soon will come.
And when she comes, I love her,
With her sunshine fair and gay,
But the winds of autumn tell me
That all fair things pass away.

VI. TAKE AGAIN ALL YOU GAVE.

Take again all you gave as the proofs of your love,
Take them back for their value is gone;
They were dear to me once, but with others you rove,
I am left to weep o'er them alone.
Since the heart you gave with them no longer is mine,
Since my tears and entreaties are vain,
Fare thee well! each remembrance I proudly resign,
They are worthless—receive them again.

Take the harp so long used to the songs of your choice
When your taste was content with my skill;
Take it back, since you now find no charm in my voice,
Though I sing your old favourites still.
Take the garlands you sportively taught me to twine,
Take the steed that you led by its rein;
Fare thee well! each remembrance I proudly resign,
They are worthless—receive them again.

225

VII. ON THE HILLS I WANDERED EARLY.

On the hills I wandered early,
And I met a maiden there,
Who was twining wild flowers
With the tresses of her hair.
And I thought when I beheld her
In her simple garb array'd,
This is one of Nature's blossoms,
Form'd for solitude and shade.

To the dance I went at midnight,
And I saw a maiden there,
With a diadem of jewels
Round the tresses of her hair.
It was she I met so early,
But her simple garb was gone,
And she now seemed formed to revel
In the sunshine of a throne.

Oh! when youth and beauty mingle
In the mansions of the gay,
Let not the old condemn them,
Or turn scornfully away.
For in truth there may be many
Who, like my fair mountain maid,
Keep their brightness for the sunshine,
And their virtues for the shade.

VIII. TEACH ME TO FORGET!

Friends depart, and memory takes them
To her caverns pure and deep;
And a forced smile only wakes them
From the shadows where they sleep.

226

Who shall school the heart's affection?
Who will banish its regret?
If you blame my deep dejection—
Teach, oh! teach me to forget!

Bear me not to festive bowers,
'Twas with them I sat there last!
Weave me not Spring's early flowers,
They'll remind me of the past!
Music seems like mournful wailing,
In the halls where we have met;
Mirth's gay call is unavailing—
Teach, oh! teach me to forget!

One who hopelessly remembers
Cannot bear a dawning light;
He would rather watch the embers
Of a love that once was bright.
Who shall school the heart's affection?
Who shall banish its regret?
If you blame my deep dejection—
Teach, oh! teach me to forget!

227

SONGS FOR WINTER NIGHTS.

I. SIGH NOT FOR SUMMER FLOWERS.

Sigh not for summer flowers;
What, though the dark sky lowers,
Welcome ye wintry hours!
Our sunshine is within.
Though to the west retreating,
Daylight so soon is fleeting,
Now happy friends are meeting,
And now their sports begin.
Sigh not for summer flowers.

Leaves that our path once shaded
Now lie around us faded;
Groves where we serenaded
Are desolate and chill;
Nature awhile reposes,
Art his gay realm uncloses,
Beauty displays her roses,
And we are happy still!
Sigh not for summer flowers.

Round us 'tis deeply snowing;
Hark! the loud tempest blowing;
See! the dark torrent flowing;
How wild the skies appear!
But can the whirlwind move us?
No! with this roof above us,
Near to the friends that love us,
We still have sunshine here.
Sigh not for summer flowers.

228

II. THE DARK WINTER TIME.

A goblet with gems may be shining,
Though bitter the poison within;
So gay wreaths are often entwining
The lure that entices to sin.
Oh! turn from the false tongues that flatter,
They cannot ennoble a crime.
Oh! think of the thorns they would scatter
O'er thy path, in the dark winter time.

The home of thy youth may be lonely,
The friends of thy youth may be cold;
The morals they teach may seem only
Fit chains for the feeble and old.
Yet, though they may fetter a spirit
That soars in the pride of its prime;
The friends of thy infancy merit
All thy love in the dark winter time.

The stranger in gems would array thee:
More pure are the braids thou hast worn;
Say—would not their lustre betray thee,
Attracting the finger of scorn?
Go—gaze once again on thy dwelling,
The porch where the wild flowers climb;
Go, pray while thy young heart is swelling,
Pray for peace in the dark winter time!

III. HO! HELM A-LEE.

Ho! helm a-lee! now homeward steer,
There'll be a storm to-night;
But never fear, the shore is near,
I see the beacon light.

229

The white foam dances on the sea,
More dark and dark it grows!
Ho! helm a-lee! Ho! helm a-lee!
About—about she goes!

Another tack! and now again
We scud across the bay;
The sea-birds strain their wings in vain
To pass us on the way.
And now our mountain home we see,
How bright the taper glows!
Ho! helm a-lee! Ho! helm a-lee!
About—about she goes!

IV. EVERGREEN TREE.

I love thee, evergreen tree!
Thou art what friendship should be;
But friendship oft is as brief
As the rose's delicate leaf.
In winter, brambles will show
Where summer's fair blossoms grow;
And sorrow too often turns
Love's roses into love's thorns!

Oh, Winter! dearly I love
Thy own dark evergreen grove;
Thy laurel the warrior wears,
It twines round the banner he bears:
Thy cypress deepens the gloom
That shades a conqueror's tomb;
Thy holly wreathed on the wall,
At Christmas, is dearer than all.

230

V. ARE THERE TIDINGS IN YON VESSEL.

Are there tidings in yon vessel
Proudly bounding o'er the wave?
Are there tidings for a mother
Who is mourning for the brave?
No, no, no!
She is freighted with fond tidings,
But no tidings from the grave.

Do not ask me why I hasten
To each vessel that appears;
Why I seem to cling so wildly
To one cherished hope for years;
No, no, no!
Though my search proves unvailing,
What have I to do with tears?

Do not blame me when I seek him,
With these wan and weary eyes;
Can you tell me where he perished?
Can you shew me where he lies?
No, no, no!
Yet there surely is some record,
When a brave young hero dies.

Had I watched beside his pillow,
Had I seen him on his bier;
Oh! I must have died of weeping,
But I cannot shed a tear!
No, no, no!
Let me still think I shall see him,
Let me still think he is near.

231

VI. OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR HEADS.

Oh! where do fairies hide their heads,
When snow lies on the hills;
When frost has spoiled their mossy beds,
And chrystalized their rills?
Beneath the moon they cannot trip
In circles o'er the plain;
And draughts of dew they cannot sip,
Till green leaves come again.

Perhaps, in small blue diving bells,
They plunge beneath the wave;
Inhabiting the wreathed shells
That lie in coral caves.
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius,
Carousals they maintain;
And cheer their little spirits thus,
Till green leaves come again.

When they return, there will be mirth,
And music in the air;
And fairy wings upon the earth,
And mischief everywhere.
The maids, to keep the elves aloof,
Will bar the doors in vain;
No key-hole will be fairy-proof,
When green leaves come again.

VII. A WINTER'S NIGHT.

In fragrant Spring, the flowers of May
Throw all their sheltering folds away;
Reviving Nature waves her wand,
On every tree the leaves expand;
But mine be the hearth that blazes bright,
And a circle of friends on a winter's night.

232

In Summer time, each little stem
Is deck'd with its leafy diadem;
Each rose holds fast, with a fond caress,
A captive bee in its sweet recess.
But mine be the hearth that blazes bright,
And a circle of friends on a winter's night.

VIII. THE MISLETOE BOUGH.

------The happiest of the happy,
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fasten'd her down for ever.
Rogers.

The misletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly branch shone on the old oak wall;
And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay,
And keeping their Christmas holiday.
The baron beheld, with a father's pride;
His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride;
While she, with her bright eyes, seem'd to be
The star of the goodly company.

“I'm weary of dancing now;” she cried;
“Here tarry a moment—I'll hide—I'll hide!
“And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace
“The clue to my secret lurking place.”
Away she ran—and her friends began
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;
And young Lovell cried, “Oh! where dost thou hide?
“I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride.”

They sought her that night! and they sought her next day!
And they sought her in vain, when a week pass'd away!
In the highest—the lowest—the loneliest spot,
Young Lovell sought wildly—but found her not.

233

And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;
And when Lovell appear'd the children cried,
“See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride.”

At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid
Was found in the castle—they raised the lid—
And a skeleton form lay mouldering there,
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!
Oh! sad was her fate!—in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
It closed with a spring!—and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasp'd in her living tomb!

237

Why not pleasure partake?
Die not—live for my sake,
Sigh not, when I'm away,
Fly not far from the gay.

II

Hie not to the weird sage,
Pry not into life's page,
Try not witchery's test;
Why not hope for the best?
I, not dreaming of guile,
Spy not a crime in a smile!
Sigh not when I'm away,
Fly not far from the gay.

THEY WEEP WHEN I HAVE NAMED HER.

I

They weep when I have named her! I'm sure she was more dear
To me, than all the world beside, and yet I shed no tear:
I culled the freshest roses, and twined them for her hair,
And then I sought her chamber—but, oh! she is not there!

II

They tell me I have lost her, I smile to see them mourn:
She could not thus desert me, I know she will return.
And I have deck'd her bower, with all my former care,
And now I come to seek her—but oh! she is not there!

III

I saw them kneel in silence beneath a yew tree's gloom,
They pointed to the name I loved upon a marble tomb!
And then I wept—but something forbad me to despair,
I felt that we should meet again—for oh! she is not there!

238

COME WOO ME AND WIN ME.

I

Come woo me and win me, but you must be taught
By love, and love only, my heart can be caught;
Thy wealth will not lure me, ne'er talk of thy store,
Believe me I value my happiness more.
Come woo me and win me, but you must be taught
By love, and love only, my heart can be caught.

II

I do not reject thee, I own I am free,
And made to my fancy my fetters must be;
Affection's light garland my heart will retain,
But ne'er hope to bind it with interest's chain.
Come woo me and win me, but you must be taught
By love, and love only, my heart can be caught.

THAT FROWN WAS HALF IN JEST.

I

That silly frown was half in jest,
Heigho!
We chide the being we love best,
Heigho!
And then too oft a smile is worn
To win the praise of crowds we scorn;
That frown was half in jest.

II

I thought refusals well exprest,
Heigho!
Were of true loves the surest test,
Heigho!
And so I frown'd, and bade him go,
And now I'd give the world to show
That frown was half in jest.

239

OH SING ME NO NEW SONGS TO-NIGHT.

I

Oh, sing me no new songs to-night:
Repeat the plaintive strain,
My favourite air in former years,—
Come sing it once again.
Sweet thoughts that slumber'd start to life,
And give my heart relief;
And though I weep to hear that song,
'Tis not the tear of grief.

II

Her precious record of the past
Fond memory oft conceals,
But music with her master key
The hidden volume steals;
The loves, the friends, the hopes of youth
Are stored in every leaf,
Oh, if I weep to hear that song,
'Tis not the tear of grief

240

MISCELLANEOUS SONGS.

OH! AM I NOT A LOVER STILL.

I

Oh! am I not a lover still;
In heart and soul the same,
As when I sought your bower first,
And learn'd to breathe your name?
Oh! look I not as proud of you?
Oh! speak I not as kind?
And, when I leave you, do I not
Leave joy itself behind?

II

The love I offer'd long ago
Is but matured by time:
As tendrils round their chosen bough
Cling closer as they climb.
Then am I not a lover still;
In heart and soul the same,
As when I sought your bower first,
And learn'd to breathe your name?

241

THE BRIDEMAID.

I

The bridal is over, the guests are all gone;
The bride's only sister sits weeping alone:
The wreath of white roses is torn from her brow,
And the heart of the Bridemaid is desolate now!

II

With smiles and caresses she deck'd the fair bride,
And then led her forth with affectionate pride:
She knew that together no more they should dwell,
Yet she smiled when she kissed her, and whisper'd “Farewell!’

III

She would not embitter a festival day,
Nor send her sweet sister in sorrow away:
She hears the bells ringing; she sees her depart—
She cannot veil longer the grief of her heart.

IV

She thinks of each pleasure, each pain, that endears
The gentle companion of happier years.
The wreath of white roses is torn from her brow,
And the heart of the Bridemaid is desolate now!

242

THE VACANT CHAIR.

[_]

Suggested by a Monument by---in the Church at Peartree Green, near Southampton.

I

Thy name, thy worth, my buried love,
To others shall be told,
Inscribed upon a marble tomb
In characters of gold.
But in thy chamber I will mourn;
I've dear memorials there;
I'll look upon the silent lute,
And yonder vacant chair.

II

How precious to the widow'd heart
Such simple records prove!
In fond perfection they restore
Lost words and looks of love.
They give us tears and take from pain
The anguish of despair.
I'll look upon the silent lute,
And yonder vacant chair.

'TWAS THE LONG EXPECTED SIGNAL!

I

She was watching from her casement,
She had watch'd since close of day,
'Twas not the hour appointed,
Yet she blam'd him for delay;

243

Her gay disguise, her mask and cloak,
Were lying by her side,
Impatiently she breath'd his name,
And wept when none replied.
And then she vow'd that he in turn
Should watch and wait for her,
For when she heard the signal word,
She would not deign to stir.

II

'Twas the long expected signal!
Oh! she knew he'd come at last,
She gave a ready answer,
For her angry mood was past.
And glancing at her toilet glass,
She paused a moment there,
To re-arrange her silken robe
And deck her flowing hair.
She gaily sang the melody
That was her lover's choice,
How happy was that maiden's heart,
How merry was her voice!

III

Alas! 'twas not by her alone
That signal had been heard,
Her lover's rival lurking there
Had caught the whisper'd word.
And bloody was his dagger's point
As from the scene he rush'd,
And cold and pale the lover lay,
The voice of love was hush'd!
And all unconscious of her doom,
Came forth his plighted bride.
None saw her shed a tear, at morn
The dead lay side by side.

244

PLACE THE LAMP IN YOUR CASEMENT.

I

Place the lamp in your casement to-night,
And draw the silk curtains aside;
Far off I shall gaze on the light,
As o'er the calm waters I glide.
Yes, tranquil the ocean will be,
Then prithee, love, watch not in fear,
What to you may seem storm, is to me
The fair breeze that is wafting me here.
Then kindle your lamp, draw the curtain aside,
And o'er the calm waters I'll glide.

II

I will let you extinguish the light,
When I've anchor'd my boat in the bay,
The beacon we want in our flight;
Must guide us the opposite way.
Yes, flight—and you will not refuse
To fly to my home o'er the sea;
For it would be a pity to lose
A breeze that's as fair as can be.
Extinguish your lamp and rely on your guide,
And o'er the calm waters we'll glide.

OH! TALK NO MORE OF SORROW PAST.

What can mean this regal gift,
And what can be the donor's drift?
These silken folds so lightly fall,
And jewels rare
To deck my hair,
To-night I'll wear them at the ball.

Tra, la, la, tra, la, la,
Oh! it is beautiful;
Fly away sorrow,
Why it was sent me,
We'll find out to-morrow;
To-night I will wear it,
Oh! fly away sorrow.

II

It may be a bridal dress,
And that is startling I confess.
In wedding robes I'll not appear,
Till (entre nous,)
They tell me who
Will act the part of bridegroom here.

Tra, la, la, &c.
Oh! it is beautiful, &c.

THE BOLD BUCCANEER.

I

Can a pure village maid love a Rover like me,
Who's pastime is battle, whose home is the sea;
Will she leave the seclusion that innocence loves,
The vine cover'd cottage, the meadows and groves,
And choosing my daring and reckless career,
Will she be the bride of the bold Buccaneer?

247

II

Oh come, my brave maiden, more gentle I'll prove
Than some who more artfully whisper their love.
More proudly my barque o'er the waters shall glide,
When I stand on the deck with my beautiful Bride.
And her delicate hand in calm weather shall steer,
To a gay summer isle with her bold Buccaneer.

I'VE SOUGHT HIM IN THE SILENT GROVE.

I

I've sought him in the silent grove,
I've sought him by the sea;
I've sung the air he used to love,
Why comes he not to me?
The carnival to-night
Can give me no delight,
Until I hear his voice,
The partner of my choice.
I've sought him in the silent grove,
I've sought him by the sea;
I've sung the air he used to love.
Why comes he not to me?

II

Ah now I see him dance along,
The lightest of the set;
And now I hear his merry song,
Guitar, and castanet.
Though 'tis no easy task
To trace me in my mask;
True love can never doubt—
At once he finds me out.
To-night we seek no silent grove,
Nor wander by the sea;
While minstrels play the airs we love,
He'll gaily dance with me.

248

NAPLES IS EVER JOYOUS AND GAY.

Naples is ever joyous and gay,
Dancing and music closing the day;
Come with a mask or with no mask at all
Welcome you'll find at the carnival ball,
Tra la la.

SEE THE SAIL SPREADING.

I

See, see the ship sailing!
Weeping and wailing,
Prove unavailing,
Prythee refrain.
Wave, wave a hand to it,
Smile as you do it,
Friends as they view it
Cheer up again.
See, see the sail spreading,
Now the deck treading,
Are they not dreading
Peril to come?
Oh! fondly address them,
With a smile bless them,
Never depress them
Thus with your gloom.

II

See, the tide flowing,
Hark the breeze blowing,
Both are bestowing
Speed on the ship.
On, onward careering,
While within hearing,
Words that are cheering
Call to your lip.

249

Far, far the winds move them,
Mists hang above them,
Now if you lov them,
Now you may mourn.
Yield, yield to emotion,
Pray with devotion,
From the vast ocean
May they return!

FLY AWAY PRETTY MOTH.

I

Fly away, pretty Moth, to the shade
Of the leaf where you slumber'd all day;
Be content with the moon and the stars, pretty Moth,
And make use of your wings while you may.
Though yon glittering light may have dazzled you quite,
Though the gold of yon lamp may be gay,
Many things in this world that look bright, pretty Moth,
Only dazzle to lead us astray.

II

I have seen, pretty Moth, in the world,
Some as wild as yourself and as gay,
Who, bewitch'd by the sweet fascination of eyes,
Flitted round them by night and by day.
But tho' dreams of delight may have dazzled them quite,
They at last found it dangerous play.
Many things in this world that look bright, pretty Moth,
Only dazzle to lead us astray.

250

LOVE IN A COTTAGE FOR ME.

I

Oh, the air of a city with poor little Love
I'm certain will never agree.
He'll sigh for the hill and the vale and the grove;
So Love in a cottage for me!
He'll pine if confined to a square or a street,
And look round for an ever-green tree;
Then give me, oh give me a rural retreat,
Oh Love in a cottage for me!

II

I very much fear Love loses in town
In heart what he gains in esprit;
And the form that he doats upon most is his own,
So Love in a cottage for me!
I'll rove with my Love on the path by the lake,
On the sands that are wash'd by the sea;
And I give up all else in the world for his sake,
So Love in a cottage for me!

SUMMER AND WINTER.

I

Oh, summer hours to us are dear,
When all the bow'rs are strew'd with flow'rs,
'Tis the roving season of the year.
Yes, over hill and vale we rove,
By sunny rill, thro' shady grove,
When all is still save the water mill;
Oh! that summer time we dearly love,
Oh! summer hours to us are dear, &c.

251

II

And winter hours to us are dear,
With leafless bowers and ceaseless show'rs,
'Tis the fireside season of the year:
And songs are sung and tales are told,
To charm the young, to cheer the old;
And the harp is strung and the log is flung,
And 'tis thus warm hearts keep out the cold.
Oh! winter hours to us are dear, &c.

WHEN THE MOON SHINES BRIGHTLY.

I

Lightly, nightly, when the moon shines brightly,
Wander under yon acacia boughs;
There love, hear love that to me thou'rt dear, love,
Fly not, why not say you'll trust my vows?
If you shun me, you've undone me,
With the cruel smile that won me!

II

Meet me, greet me, and with kind words treat me.
Frown not, drown not little love in tears!
Take me, make me blest, and ne'er forsake me,
Treasure pleasure up for future years.
I will never from thee sever,
Daily loving more than ever.

THOU ART THAT ONE.

I

He loves not like me who has lov'd more than one;
If false thou could'st be, still all others I'd shun.
Though broken in spirit my solace should be
To think that I merit more kindness from thee.

252

Then oh, do not say though I lov'd thee to-day,
Affection will die when I'm far, far away.
My eyes may see many, my heart will love none,
Excepting one only, and thou art that one.

II

He loves not like me, when his first love is lost,
Who shudders to see things she valued the most;
Who shrinks from the music that she used to sing,
Avoiding the garden she decked in the spring.
If thou wert unkind, it would soothe me to find
Some relic that call'd up the past to my mind.
The tears that would flow, less than smiles would I shun,
Still loving one only, and thou art that one.

SAY NOT YOU LOVE ME.

I

Say not you love me because I am fair;
Praise not my beauty, my eyes, and my hair;
If these dark tresses have charm'd you to-day,
What will you think of me when they grow grey?

II

Oh! if you love me, endeavour to find
Some better reason, some charm of the mind;
Though with these tresses so fondly you play,
You'll seldom sport with them when they grow grey.

III

Love that slights beauty, in youth must be cold;—
Prizing that only, what is it when old?
Try to love something that will not decay;
Virtue grows dearer as tresses grow grey.

253

OH! WHY DOES HE STAY.

I

His foot in the stirrup, his hand on the rein,
Why turns the young knight from his charger again.
How lately his dark eye was kindled with rage,
How lately he summon'd his little foot page.
He vow'd he would ride from the castle to-day,—
Now ev'ning is coming,—oh, why does he stay?

II

His lady love danced with another last night,
He came to upbraid her, and threaten'd to fight.
She laugh'd at his anger, and from her he flew,
Exclaiming, “For ever, false lady, adieu!”
He summon'd his charger, and brook'd not delay;
And now it is waiting.—Oh, why does he stay?

III

Again to her chamber he silently steals,
And humbly before her the penitent kneels;
Again her white fingers are clasp'd in his own,
Again his plume bonnet beside him is thrown.
The steed and the page are forgotten to-day;
The lady is smiling—the lover will stay.

THE CIRCASSIAN.

We have loved, when some despairing
Would have spurned the hopeless vow:
But we still each trial sharing
Sought for Hope, and find her now.

II

We have known the pain of hiding
Love beneath a careless brow;
But tho' sad, we still confiding
Sought for Hope, and find her now.

THOSE HAPPY DAYS.

I

Those happy days! Oh, let us strive
To throw as sweet a charm o'er these;
And ere we part, once more revive
The sports that never fail to please.

II

Light up again the marble hall,
And let the hearth more brightly blaze;
Each well remember'd smile recall,
And, oh! restore those happy days!

III

Those happy days! will they return?
The hearth is bright, the wreaths are fair,
The golden lamps around us burn,
Yet something still is wanting there.

256

Surely you cannot believe, if I wanted
The sweetest exotic my taste could select,
I'd turn away, when my prize was transplanted,
And leave it to wither, and die of neglect.

I HAVE SEEN YOU, THOUGH UNSEEN.

I

One fond look my brain has haunted,
Since from you estranged I've been,
And the wish at length is granted,
I have seen you, though unseen.
Must I make the weak confession,
Yes—degrading though it be;
I had hop'd some sad expression
Would betray regret for me!

II

But alas! the dream is over!
What I saw I'd fain forget;
Nought that spoke the pensive lover—
No remembrance! no regret!
Looks of love too well I noted,
Fond as they were wont to be;
But I saw them all devoted
To another, not to me!

259

III

Oh! I dar'd not venture near you,
But your lip too plainly mov'd,
Just as when I used to hear you
Falsely vow that I was lov'd!
I relied, and proof was wanted
That my heart your sport had been;
And at length the wish is granted,
I have seen you, though unseen!

I WILL NOT SIGH FOR THEE.

I.

I will not sigh for thee, no, no!
A tear thou shalt not see, no, no!
This heart will never break,
Not e'en for thy sake.
And yet I love thee well,
Yes, lady, yes!
'Twere joy with thee to dwell,
Yes, lady, yes!
I've seen thee frown on me,
Yes, lady, yes!
Then I'll never sigh for thee.
No, no, I ne'er met a form more fair,
I ne'er saw brighter hair;
I do not wish to part,
Yet 'twill not break my heart.
And yet I love thee, lady, well,
Yes, lady, yes! yes, lady, yes!
And yet I love thee, lady, well,
Yes, lady, yes! yes, lady, yes!
But no, no, I will not sigh!

260

NO, NE'ER CAN THY HOME BE MINE!

I

I have told thee how sweet the roses are
In my home beyond the sea;
Where the dark eyed maid, with her sweet guitar,
Sits under the orange tree.
Then fly, oh fly from this Isle of storm,
Where all that is fair must pine,
To a sky more blue, and a sun more warm:
Henceforth, let thy home be thine.

II

I have heard thee tell of a sky more blue,
And a sun more warm than this;
And I've sometimes thought—if thy tale be true,
To dwell in that clime were bliss:
But oh! when I gaze on my tranquil cot,
Where the clematis boughs entwine,
The land of the stranger tempts me not,
No,—ne'er can thy home be mine!

III

I will sing to thee, if with me thou'lt rove,
The songs of the olden time.
Thou wilt never compare with my ardent love
The love of this colder clime!
Thou wilt scorn the fruits of thy mountain home,
Beholding the purple vine;
Then come to the land of my birth, oh come,
Henceforth let my home be thine.

IV

Alas! 'tis plain that my mountain home
Must ever be scorn'd by thee;
And may I not fear that a time will come,
When thou wilt have scorn for me?

261

And oh! there is one who loves me here,
Whose voice, if less sweet than thine,
To my simple taste is far more dear;
No, ne'er can thy home be mine.

I WOULD BEAR AS MUCH FOR YOU.

I

I remember how you sooth'd me, when you saw me in distress;
There was nothing gave me comfort, but affection's pure caress;
Can you doubt me for an instant? Oh, you wrong me, if you do!
I remember all your kindness, and I'd bear as much for you.

II

I remember how you nurs'd me in my sickness, 'gainst my will,
How you feign'd to leave my chamber, yet in secret watch'd me still:
'Twas your gentle hand that saved me, and devotion is your due:
I remember all your kindness, and I'd bear as much for you.

HOW TO BE MORE FIRMLY TRUE.

I

May we own the pure affection,
Plighted by a secret vow;
May the love that spurn'd detection
Boast its sad endurance now?
Yes, love, yes! to those who thought us
Merely triflers, thanks are due;
For their stern oppression taught us
How to be more firmly true!

262

II

Say not then that we have wasted
Sadly some few years on earth;
Grief, just long enough hath lasted
To give joy a double worth.
To the past still fondly turning,
Days less bright we'll keep in view,
From that lesson wisely learning
How to be more firmly true.

I'LL SHED NO TEAR FOR THEE.

I

I'll shed no tear for thee—no!
Tears would but spoil my eyes;
If thou would'st go from me—go,
The path before thee lies.
If other maids have won thee,
Let others smile upon thee;
Go woo them if thou'rt wise.

II

I'll smile when thou'rt gone—yes!
Don't threaten me, but go;
I mean to smile on one—guess
If thou his name wouldst know.
When gone, thou still returnest;
Oh! when thou'rt gone in earnest,
How well I'll bear the blow!

263

IN THE SUNNY DAYS DAYS OF LIFE.

I

In the sunny days of life,
As your fond confiding wife,
Ever near you,
Prompt to cheer you,
I will be;
But when tears are on your cheek,
In your sorrow, if you'd seek
The indulgence of a mother, come to me.

II

Should the friends of brighter days
Censure him they used to praise,
I'd befriend you,
And defend you,
You should see;
But an error if you'd own,
And for erring days atone,
As you'd come unto a mother, come to me.

MY STEED IS AT THE GATE.

I

My steed is at the gate, my dear,
And I have woo'd thee long;
I've been thy partner in the dance,
I've listen'd to thy song:
I love thee, but I frankly own
That these delays I hate,
So give an answer to my suit,
My steed is at the gate!

264

II

I've idly loiter'd many days
In meadow and in grove;
At night beneath thy tower I've sung
The serenade of love.
But if I led so dull a life,
Thou soon would'st scorn thy mate.
I've woo'd thee long—thy answer, quick,
My steed is at the gate.

III

Say “yes,” and thou shalt ever find
A faithful knight in me.
But answer “no,” I will not vow
To pine and die for thee.
But say the final word at once,
I can no longer wait:
A smile have with thee to the church,
My steed is at the gate.

OLD AGE SITS BENT ON HIS IRON-GRAY STEED.

I

Old age sits bent on his iron-gray steed,
Youth rides erect on his courser black;
And little he thinks in his reckless speed,
Old age comes on in the very same track!
Though one seems strong as the forest tree,
The other infirm, and wanting breath;
If ever youth baffles old age, 'twill be
By rushing into the arms of death.

265

II

And youth will quaff, and youth will feast,
His lagging foe he'll still deride;
Until, when he expects him least,
Old age and he stand side by side.
He then looks into his toilet glass,
And sees old age reflected there;
He cries alas! how quickly pass,
Bright eyes, and bloom, and raven hair.

THE SON OF A SOLDIER A SOLDIER MUST BE.

I

Oh! dear as you are, tell me not of a home
Where my spirit may rest like a bird in a cage;
The wing that has early been tempted to roam
Must ever be restless, 'till fetter'd by age.
I know if you love me, I won your good will,
Because I was first of the brave and the free.
Then give me a smile to encourage me still,
For the son of a soldier a soldier must be.

II

Rejected—and just when I hop'd to be blest!
You can't be in earnest—It must be a jest!
Remember, remember, how often I've knelt
Explicitly telling you all that I felt;
And talk'd about poison in accents so wild,
So very like torture, you started,—and smiled!
Not have me! not love me! Oh! what have I said? &c.

II

Not have me! not love me! And is it then true
That opulent age is the lover for you?
'Gainst rivalry's bloom I would strive,—'tis too much
To yield to the terror of rivalry's crutch.
Remember, remember, I might call him out,
But, Madam, you're scarcely worth fighting about;
My sword shall be stainless in blade and in hilt,
I thought you a jewel, I find you a jilt!
Not have me! not love me! And is it then true, &c.

THE ACCEPTED.

I

I thank thee for that downcast look, and for that blushing cheek,
I would not have thee raise those eyes, I would not have thee speak.
Tho' mute, I deem thee eloquent, I ask no other sign,
While thus thy little hand remains confidingly in mine.

II

I know you fain would hide from me the tell-tale tears that steal
Unbidden forth, and half betray the anxious fears you feel.
From friends, long tried and dearly lov'd, the plighted bride must part:
Then freely weep, I could not love a cold unfeeling heart.

270

TAKE, TAKE ONCE MORE THY SILV'RY LUTE.

I

Take, take once more thy silv'ry lute
And sing the song I love to hear.
Oh, never 'till those lips are mute
Shall cease that song my soul to cheer!
'Tis not alone its witching strain:
There lies a charm within the chords,
Then breathe it to thy lute again,
Then breathe it to thy lute again!

II

When first I heard that spell-wove song,
It was at twilight's tender hour;
Our hearts were light, our hopes were young,
I heard, I loved, and owned their power:
And still to me, whene'er it swells,
Their wonted spell its notes retain.
Of love and thee their music tells,
Oh, breathe it to thy lute again!

OH! I COME NOT TO UPBRAID THEE.

I

Oh! I come not to upbraid thee,
Nor to woo thee am I here,
Though in peril I would aid thee,
Though in sorrow I would cheer.
Though 'tis thee I'd snatch from danger,
On its brink were thousands thrown,
Yet the vow of some mere stranger
I would trust before thine own.

271

II

It will be a source of wonder
When we part, I know it well;
Why our hearts were torn asunder
Let thine own false accents tell.
Thou mayst say I did deceive thee,
Unprovoked I did renounce;
There are many will believe thee,
E'en as I believed thee once.

III

I would peril life to save thee,
For no other do I live;
No, the love I freely gave thee
To no other can I give.
For with me all love was over
When my first love proved a dream;
I have ceased to be thy lover,
Love could ne'er survive esteem.

THE BATTLE IS FOUGHT.

[_]

(French Air.)

I

The battle is fought, and the weapons are sheath'd,
The brows of the victors with laurels are wreath'd;
Each sword glitters bright, and the blood stains are gone,
The triumph of war is remember'd alone.
But some may shrink back from this splendid array,
Some mourners in tears may turn sadly away.
They heed not the pomp of the trophy or wreath,
Whose hearts lov'd the lost one who slumbers beneath.

272

II

Behold yon fair maid, with a glance of despair
Seeks one who she knows too well cannot be there!
Till all are gone past, like a statue she stands,
Then silently covers her face with her hands.
Too hopeless to weep, and too feeble to stir,
Each fold of yon banner seems bloody to her.
That wreath on his tomb will hang withering now
She once hop'd in triumph to twine round his brow.

THE OCEAN IS CALM.

I

The ocean is calm, and the winds are asleep,
There is not a wave on the face of the deep.
The water all gilded by sunbeams appears,
Like dimples of infancy smiling thro' tears.
Above as the snowy sails motionless lie,
So faint is the summer breeze murmuring by,
The waters disturb'd by our boat gently move,
Like the soft waving down on the breast of a dove.

II

When we gaze on the water, how little we know
Of floods that unfathom'd are frowning below.
Ah! who that now looks on this glittering form
Would dream of its terrors in whirlwind and storm;
How many, elated with visions of bliss,
Have embark'd when the day seem'd as tranquil as this,
And thought not of storms and of dangers to come,
Though they lurked in the breeze that seem'd wafting them home.

273

SUCH TEARS ARE BLISS.

I

Oh! give me a sweet and shady bow'r,
On the banks of a river, clear and bright,
And let not a ray of the sun have pow'r
To peep thro' the woodbines from morn till night.
Then sing me the songs that I used to hear,
In our own sweet home more fair than this;
And if on my cheek you behold a tear,
Sing on, sing on, for such tears are bliss!

II

When last we met in that lonely bow'r,
We knew not the meaning of such fond tears.
We are older now and mourn for some
Who shar'd in the pleasure of former years.
Ah! when I remember how oft they heard
That song in a shady spot like this,
Tho' a tear may fall from ev'ry word,
Sing on, sing on, for such tears are bliss!

OH! ASK ME NOT TO BE YOUR BRIDE.

Oh, no! I am not what I was, when last I sung to thee;
The playful song, that won thy smile, is not the song for me:
My harp of smiles upon the earth unstrung and broken lies;
And well I know that one so young will scorn my harp of sighs.

II

I have no song of youth and hope, that does not close in care;
I have no tale of woman's love, that ends not in despair:
I only breathe the name of joy, to tell how soon it dies;
I only sing the songs that suit this dear, dear harp of sighs!

III

I could not, if I would, be gay, for when I touch the chords,
I throw a shade of sadness o'er the melody, and words:
Grief through her darken'd glass discerns no sunshine in the skies,
The voice must mourn that mingles with thy notes,—my harp of sighs!

MY HARP OF SMILES.

I

Oh! if upon my harp of smiles one string may still be found;
For thee, dear love, I'll strive to wake its long neglected sound:
I will be gay, that smile of thine ne'er shone on me in vain;
Come forth, my harp of smiles, I'll sing my cheerful songs again!

276

II

I thought that in my solitude such songs would ne'er be sung;
But thou art here, and I am chang'd, my very heart feels young:
One link restor'd, we reunite the long-lost broken chain;
Come forth my harp of smiles, I'll sing my cheerful songs again!

III

I'll sing of love, ay! love like thine, still faithful to its vow;
I'll sing of joy—the boundless joy that fills my bosom now;
I'll tell thee tales of constancy that triumphs over pain;
Come forth my harp of smiles, I'll sing my cheerful songs again!

DECK NOT WITH GEMS.

I

Deck not with gems that lovely form for me,
They in my eyes add no charm to thee;
Braid not for me the tresses of thy hair,
I must have loved thee had'st thou not been fair.

II

How oft, when half in tears hast thou beguiled
The sorrow from my heart, and I have smiled:
Oh! form'd alike my tears and smiles to share,
I must have loved thee hadst thou not been fair.

III

Time on that cheek his with'ring hand may press,
He may do all but make me love thee less;
The mind defies him, and thy charm lies there.
I must have loved thee hadst thou not been fair.

277

THE LOVE-KNOT.

I

You do not now remember
This ribbon, once so gay;
And yet it was your own gift,
Upon our wedding-day.
You had no gems to offer,
I never sigh'd for them;
I prized this little love-knot,
Beyond the brightest gem.

II

I thought you would not know it,
Alas, 'tis faded now!
No longer fit to flutter
Upon a bridal-brow.
Yet once a-year I'll wear it,
If triflers scorn its hue:
I'll tell them I'm as happy
As when this knot was new.

A FEATHER IN MY CAP.

I

My heart was free, you caught it:
My friends look'd on, and thought it
A feather in my cap to win your love:
Your love! so many sought it,
A feather in my cap t'will prove,
Tho' we're no more together;
Go, trifler go, your fickle love
Was nothing but a feather!

278

“Rather be a man of worth,
Prompt to do good deeds on earth;
Work with zeal, your task will prove
Easy as the songs you love.
They have sunshine, they have flow'rs,
Who look back on well spent hours!”

GRIEF WAS SENT THEE FOR THY GOOD.

I

In the scenes of former pleasure,
Present anguish hast thou felt?
O'er thy fond heart's dearest treasure,
As a mourner hast thou knelt?
In the hour of deep affliction,
Let no impious thought intrude,
Meekly bow, with this conviction—
Grief was sent thee for thy good.

II

Some there are who seem exempted
From the doom incurr'd by all.
Are they not more sorely tempted!
Are they not the first to fall?
As a mother's firm denial
Checks her infant's wayward mood,
Wisdom lurks in ev'ry trial:
Grief was sent thee for thy good.

282

VIRTUE AND ERROR.

I

Many there are who of their lot complain;
Many there are who rail at fate in vain;
But on himself weak man should vent his rage,
Error in youth must lead to gloom in age.

II

Many there are content in humblest lot:
Many there are, though poor, who murmur not:
Write then in gold on their recording page:
Virtue in youth must lead to bliss in age.

With beating heart and trembling step, the maiden left her home,
She clung for aid to one who spoke of happy days to come:
The victim heard not then the voice of conscience whispering low:
“Such bliss as guiltless thou hast known, the guilty never know.”

II

He promis'd splendour, gems, and gold; she heard of these unmov'd;
He promis'd changeless constancy, she listen'd and she lov'd!
Why was there not some watchful friend to warn her of the foe:
“Such bliss as guiltless thou hast known, the guilty never know.”

III

Again she sees her native vale, again she looks for some
Who lov'd in her that mean abode, which once she called her home:
But there in hopeless solitude repentant tears must flow:
“Such bliss as guiltless thou hast known, the guilty never know.”

THE BLACK-BALL'D MAN.

I

I've got my friends to put me up at all the clubs in town,
But, do you know, 'twixt friend and foe, the clubs have knock'd me down.
You're well aware at Petty-town the figure that I make,
And now to be used scurvily, there must be some mistake.

286

II

In Regent Street whom should I meet, why young Sir Harry Miles!
He has my vote at Petty-town, how civilly he smiles.
I heard him say at Crockford's club, great interest he'd make,
And then of course, propose me, so there can be no mistake.

III

We met again, he tried in vain to look another way;
At length he said, “I'm quite annoy'd at what I have to say.
I walk'd about to speak your praise, until my legs did ache,
But all your balls were black as ink! there must be some mistake!”

IV

On both United Services, the little and the great,
To offer them my services, I civilly did wait;
At both the people sat and laugh'd until their sides did shake,
And said they had no civil list! and that was no mistake.

V

The Wyndham I attempted; but the Wyndham blew me back;
Then White's, and what's astonishing, at White's the balls were black!
Upon the Athenæum steps the people made me quake,
With wigs and canes, and shovel hats; there must be some mistake.

VI

The Travellers is only meant, (and that I think's a pity,)
For travellers who serve commercial houses in the city.
So still at some dull coffee-house, alone my meal I make,
The black-ball'd man! and yet I'm sure—there must be some mistake!

287

OH! HOW BLEST THE LOVER.

I.

Oh! how blest the lover,
When the battle's rage is over,
Who perceives
The myrtle leaves,
His true-love's cot that cover.
Though danger hover'd o'er him,
Yet his foes have fled before him.
Again he's bless'd,
Again he's press'd
To fond hearts that adore him.

II.

Children round him gather,
And slily ask him whether
They may behold
His banner's fold,
And wear his snowy feather.
They listen to his story,
And sages weak and hoary
Come forth to view
His laurels too,
And talk of wounds and glory.

III.

Many lips entreat him
To linger while they greet him.
He rushes on,
To welcome one,
The girl who flies to meet him.
Oh! how blest, &c.

288

DEARER THAN LIFE THOU ART.

I

Dearer than life thou art, can I say more?
True, I have told thee so often before;
But of thy apathy still I complain,
Therefore, I tell it thee over again:
Thou wert my hope, 'mid the perils of war,
Dearer than life thou art, dearer by far!

II

Some may have eloquent lips I confess,
Accents more studied their feelings express;
But not a lover before thee has knelt,
Feeling one half of the love I have felt.
Dear thou art still, though my bliss thou may'st mar,
Dearer than life, thou art dearer by far!

III

If thou art won by gay lovers like these,
Still thou shalt find me endeavour to please;
Woo thee in accents as proud as their own,
Tell thee, thy graces would honour a throne;
Call thee my rose-bud, my diamond, my star;
Dearer than life thou art, dearer by far!

NO VESSEL IS IN SIGHT.

Oh! when they brought me hither, they wonder'd at my wild delight,
But would I were at home again, I cannot dance to-night!
How can they all look so cheerful? the dance seems strangely dull to me;
The music sounds so mournful, what can the reason be?
Oh! when they brought me hither, they wonder'd at my wild delight,
But I would I were at home again, I cannot dance to-night!

II

Hark! hark! at length he's coming, I'm not weary—let me stay!
I hear his laugh distinctly now, 'twill chase the gloom away.
Oh! would that I were near him, he sees me not amid the crowd,
He hears me not—ah! would I dared to breathe his name aloud.
Oh! when they brought me hither, they wonder'd at my wild delight,
But would I were at home again, I cannot dance to-night!

III

He leaves that group of triflers, and with the smile I love to see,
He seems to seek for some one—oh! is it not for me?
No, no! 'tis for that dark-eyed girl, I see her now return his glance,
He passes me, he takes her hand, he leads her to the dance!
Oh! when they brought me hither, they wonder'd at my wild delight,
But would I were at home again, I cannot dance to-night!

291

I GAVE YOU MY HEART.

I.

I gave you my gold, and how little I thought
In the first days of love, 'twas my gold that you sought.
I will not deny I exulted to see
One praised by too many look kindly on me:
And the wonder you feign'd, when my treasure was told,
Made my poor heart rejoice when I gave you my gold.
Your smile is the wealth that I fain would behold,
For I gave you my heart ere I gave you my gold.

II.

I gave you my gold as I'd give it you now;
They tell me 'tis wasted, I ask you not how.
The pleasures it bought made you wander from me,
Could you now be content, oh! how happy I'd be.
Your smile is the wealth that I fain would behold,
For I gave you my heart ere I gave you my gold:

I'LL LIVE ON THE SMILES.

I

I love you sincerely, though often you tell me
I have not the symptoms that lovers should wear;
You say I should languish, and strive to compel me
To sue for your pity, with sighs of despair.
Yet think not that sighing, of love, is a token:
You frown, yet I cannot contrive to repine;
If hearts are not worth your regard till they're broken,
I trust, my fair lady, you'll never have mine!

292

II

You tell me my cheek wears no trace of dejection,
Yet do not believe that I love you the less;
You say I am cheerful, and surely affection
May brighten the spirits but cannot depress.
When present you always preserve me from sorrow,
And even when absent you'll drive it away,
For if I should chance not to see you to-morrow,
I'll live on the smiles that you gave me to-day.

THE FRIENDS WHO SMILE NO MORE.

I

I've seen you oft select a flower,
To wear upon some festive day;
But faded ere the evening hour,
Without a thought 'twas thrown away!
The flow'rs that deck a gay saloon
We prize not, when their bloom is o'er;
And do we not forget as soon
The once gay friends who smile no more.

II

The withered rose we soon replace,
With one as fair as that we lose;
And won by some attractive face,
As soon another friend we choose:
But fleeting must such friendship prove,
And dearer ties we shall deplore,
When we, like those we used to love,
Know what it is to smile no more.

293

THE BIRTH OF A SMILE.

I

When love was a novice a long time ago,
Deck'd out by mama with a quiver and bow,
He used them as playthings, and threw out his darts
At doves and at sparrows, and thought not of hearts.
But shooting at random is dangerous play,
A fair nymph was struck by an arrow one day;
And Cupid, who then was not so harden'd in guilt,
Turn'd pale at the sight of the blood he had spilt.

II

“Oh! what can I do for my pretty young maid?
I'll be your physician,” the penitent said:
“Come tell me your symptoms.” “Alas!” she replied,
“A fluttering pulse and a pain in my side:
And a feverish feeling when Damon is nigh,
And a pang when he leaves me, I cannot tell why:
Oh! cure me, or shoot Damon also; I'm sure
If he shared my feelings I'd ask for no cure.”

III

“No, no, you shall shoot him yourself,” he replied;
“I'll give you my weapon and fight on your side;
Prepare your artillery, this way he went.
I see him, we'll wound him, make ready, present.
I'll send a new light to your eyes, and give birth
To a mingled expression, half archness, half mirth;
I'll shew him your teeth when your little mouth speaks,
And place a small dimple in one of your cheeks.”

294

IV

These charms in succession were fruitlessly tried:
The youth felt no fever, no pain, in his side.
“Now use all your arrows at once,” cried the child;
She did so, and Damon was hers, for she smil'd!
“Delightful! delightful!” said Cupid, “I've found
A charm of all others most certain to wound:
Though eyes, teeth, and dimples may fail for awhile,
Combine them, and call the bright weapon a smile!”

THE TWO WEDDINGS.

I

Around the marble altar, a hundred tapers blaze;
Upon the bride and bridegroom, a hundred vassals gaze:
A hundred high born ladies upon the princess wait,
A hundred arm'd retainers are mounted at the gate.
The vow is said, the hymn is sung,
Oh! both are fair and both are young;
With what delight they smile to-night,
With them the future must be bright;
Bright it may be, but their state
Gives no surety to either;
Happy indeed is their fate,
If love brings them together.

II

Beside a rural altar, two simple peasants stand,
No bridal gems and dresses have they at their command:
Few friends assemble round them, few eager gazers wait.
And when they reach their dwelling, no vassal opes the gate.
The vow is said, the hymn is sung;
And both are fair and both are young:
Alas! to-day, tho' blithe and gay,
In poverty love may decay!
Poor they may be, but their state
Gives no sorrow to either;
Happy indeed is their fate
If love brings them together.

And have I lived to hear thee blame,
To see thee turn those eyes away?
I thought, if slander breath'd my name,
That thou wouldst wipe the stain away.
But that delusive thought is gone,
And blest again I ne'er shall be.
The time will come when thou wilt own
That I deserv'd not this from thee.

298

II

I've watch'd for thee thro' weary days,
I've pray'd for thee thro' nights of gloom,
I fondly strove to win thy praise,
Yet scorn and hatred are my doom.
Though I have sunk before thy frown,
The world's contempt unmov'd I'll see;
The time will come when thou wilt own
That I deserv'd not this from thee.

HE LOVES ME NOT WITH THAT FOND LOVE.

I

I hear him say he loves me well,
And I would fain believe;
He vows he'll ne'er abandon me,
And why should he deceive?
Yet still I think—and at the thought
My eyes with tears are dim,
He loves me not with that fond love
Which I have felt for him.

II

He leaves me for the mountain chase,
And for the courtly scene;
To me it were the greatest bliss
To be where he has been.
He leaves me that his laughing lip
May touch the goblet's brim;
He loves me not with that fond love
Which I have felt for him.

299

III

Oh! woman dwells in loneliness
While restless man may rove;
Perhaps he was not made to feel
Her all engrossing love.
And thus I watch his late return,
My fading lamp I trim;
He loves me not with that fond love
Which I have felt for him.

'TIS WHEN NO TRIFLER LINGERS.

I

She is not nam'd, when those are near
Whose cold hearts condemn the tear
That still is shed for one so dear.
Say not, she is not nam'd among us—
You little dream how much you wrong us.
She is not nam'd when those are near, &c.

II

Some may be forc'd in smiles to dress
The mem'ry of a past distress,
Think you that they feel the less?
Oh! do not say that we forget her,
Be silent 'till you know us better.
She is not nam'd when those are near, &c.

III

'Tis when no trifler lingers near,
With apathy our words to hear,
We breathe the name of one so dear.
We mourn her still, we name her only
When all around is sad and lonely.
She is not nam'd when those are near, &c.

300

WHEN I MEAN TO DEPART.

I

When I mean to depart, not a word will I say,
No tear, as I leave thee, my grief shall betray;
Yes, for once I'll deceive, and thou'lt pardon that deceit,
One word at such a moment could'st thou repeat?

No, no, no! sister dear, sister dear!
Silently we'll part,
Oh, while I'm here, shed no tear
But press me to thy heart!

II

We shall soon meet again, never doubt 'twill be so,
They who never parted such joy never know.
Welcome me when I come, and thy welcome will be sweet,
One word when we are parting could'st thou repeat?

No, no, no, &c.

END OF VOL. I.