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

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

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



OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS.

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

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

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



THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.

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

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

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

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

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



THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.

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

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

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



FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

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

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



SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.[1]

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

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

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

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

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



NATIONAL AIRS



ADVERTISEMENT.

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

T.M.



NATIONAL AIRS



A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.

(SPANISH AIR.)

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

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



FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

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

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



ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE.

(INDIAN AIR.)

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

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



SO WARMLY WE MET.

(HUNGARIAN AIR.)

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

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



THOSE EVENING BELLS.

(AIR.—THE BELLS OF ST. PETERSBURGH.)

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

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

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



SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

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

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



REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY.

(ITALIAN AIR.)

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

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

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

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



FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE!

(SICILIAN AIR.)

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

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



DOST THOU REMEMBER.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

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

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

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



OH, COME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT SETS.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

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

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



OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

(SCOTCH AIR.)

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

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



HARK! THE VESPER HYMN IS STEALING.

(RUSSIAN AIR.)

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

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



LOVE AND HOPE.

(SWISS AIR.)

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

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

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

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

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

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



THERE COMES A TIME.

(GERMAN AIR.)

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

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



MY HARP HAS ONE UNCHANGING THEME.

(SWEDISH AIR.)

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

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



OH, NO—NOT EVEN WHEN FIRST WE LOVED.

(CASHMERIAN AIR.)

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

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



PEACE BE AROUND THEE.

(SCOTCH AIR.)

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

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



COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS.

(FRENCH AIR.)

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

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

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

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



THEN, FARE THEE WELL.

(OLD ENGLISH AIR.)

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

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

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

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

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



GAYLY SOUNDS THE CASTANET.

(MALTESE AIR.)

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

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

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



LOVE IS A HUNTER-BOY.

(LANGUEDOCIAN AIR.)

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

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



COME, CHASE THAT STARTING TEAR AWAY.

(FRENCH AIR.)

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

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



JOYS OF YOUTH, HOW FLEETING!

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

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

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



HEAR ME BUT ONCE.

(FRENCH AIR.)

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

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



WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD

(SWEDISH AIR.)

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

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

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

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

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



SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO-DAY?

(SICILIAN AIR.)

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

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



BRIGHT BE THY DREAMS.

(WELSH AIR.)

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

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



GO, THEN—'TIS VAIN.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

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

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



THE CRYSTAL-HUNTERS.

(SWISS AIR.)

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

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

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



ROW GENTLY HERE.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

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

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



OH, DAYS OF YOUTH.

(FRENCH AIR.)

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

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



WHEN FIRST THAT SMILE.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

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

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



PEACE TO THE SLUMBERERS!

(CATALONIAN AIR.)

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

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

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



WHEN THOU SHALT WANDER.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

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

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



WHO'LL BUY MY LOVE-KNOTS?

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

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

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

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

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

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



SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN.

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

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

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



NETS AND CAGES.[1]

(SWEDISH AIR.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

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

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



GO, NOW, AND DREAM.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

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

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



TAKE HENCE THE BOWL.

(NEAPOLITAN AIR.)

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

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



FAREWELL, THERESA!

(VENETIAN AIR.)

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

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

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



HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS.

(SAVOYARD AIR.)

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

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



WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE.

(GERMAN AIR.)

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

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



THO' 'TIS ALL BUT A DREAM.

(FRENCH AIR.)

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

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



WHEN THE WINE-CUP IS SMILING.

(ITALIAN AIR.)

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

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



WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR SHAME?

(NEAPOLITAN AIR.)

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

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



NE'ER TALK OF WISDOM'S GLOOMY SCHOOLS.

(MAHRATTA AIR.)

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

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



HERE SLEEPS THE BARD.

(HIGHLAND AIR.)

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



DO NOT SAY THAT LIFE IS WANING.

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

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

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



THE GAZELLE.

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

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

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

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



NO—LEAVE MY HEART TO REST.

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

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



WHERE ARE THE VISIONS.

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

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



WIND THY HORN, MY HUNTER BOY.

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

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



OH, GUARD OUR AFFECTION.

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

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

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



SLUMBER, OH SLUMBER.

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

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



BRING THE BRIGHT GARLANDS HITHER.

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

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



IF IN LOVING, SINGING.

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



THOU LOVEST NO MORE.

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

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

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

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



WHEN ABROAD IN THE WORLD.

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

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



KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE.

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

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

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



HOPE COMES AGAIN.

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

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

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



O SAY, THOU BEST AND BRIGHTEST.

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

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



WHEN NIGHT BRINGS THE HOUR.

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

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



LIKE ONE WHO, DOOMED.

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

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

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

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



FEAR NOT THAT, WHILE AROUND THEE.

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

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



WHEN LOVE IS KIND.

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE GARLAND I SEND THEE.

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

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

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



HOW SHALL I WOO?

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

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

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



SPRING AND AUTUMN.

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

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

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



LOVE ALONE.

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

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

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



SACRED SONGS



TO

EDWARD TUITE DALTON, ESQ.

THE FIRST NUMBER

OF

SACRED SONGS

IS INSCRIBED,

BY HIS SINCERE AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND,

THOMAS MOORE.

Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne, May, 1816



SACRED SONGS



THOU ART, O GOD.

(Air.—Unknown.)[1]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE BIRD, LET LOOSE.

(AIR.—BEETHOVEN.)

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

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

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

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



FALLEN IS THY THRONE.

(AIR.—MARTINI.)

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

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

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

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

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

[2] "Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."—Jer. xiv. 21.

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

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

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

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



WHO IS THE MAID?

ST. JEROME'S LOVE.

(AIR.—BEETHOVEN.)

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

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

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



THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

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

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

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



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

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

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

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

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



WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

(AIR.—AVISON.)

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

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

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



THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

(AlR.—AVISON.)[1]

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

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

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

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

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



GO, LET ME WEEP.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

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

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



COME NOT, OH LORD.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

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

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

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

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



WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

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

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

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

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

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



AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

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

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



BUT WHO SHALL SEE.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



ALMIGHTY GOD!

CHORUS OF PRIESTS.

(AIR.—MOZART.)

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

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

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

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



OH FAIR! OH PUREST!

SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.

(AIR.—MOORE)

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

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



ANGEL OF CHARITY.

(AIR.—HANDEL)

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

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



BEHOLD THE SUN.

(AIR.—LORD MORNINGTON.)

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

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

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

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



LORD, WHO SHALL BEAR THAT DAY.

(AIR.—DR. BOYCE.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Matt xxv. 32, et seq.



OH, TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

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

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

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



WEEP, CHILDREN OF ISRAEL.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

[3] "My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew."—Moses' Song.

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

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



LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.

(AIR. BEETHOVEN.)

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

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

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

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



COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

(AIR.—GERMAN.)

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

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

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



AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME.

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.

(AIR.—CRESCENTINI.)

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

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

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

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



SINCE FIRST THY WORD.

(AIR.—NICHOLAS FREEMAN.)

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

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

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



HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE.

(AIR.—ROUSSEAU.)

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

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



WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?

(AIR.—HASSE.)

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

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

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



HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.

(AIR—ANONYMOUS.)

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

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

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

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

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



GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT,

(AIR.—STEVENSON.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Neh. viii. 15.

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



IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.

(AIR.—HAYDN.)

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

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

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

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

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

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



WAR AGAINST BABYLON.

(AIR.—NOVELLO.)

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

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

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

[2] "Make bright the arrows; gather the shields...set up the standard upon the walls of Babylon"—Jer. li. 11, 12.

[3] "Woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their visitation!"—Jer. l. 27.



A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.



ADVERTISEMENT.

These verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry which has cost but little labor to the writer is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I certainly should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.

With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using "the outlandish term, monopoly." But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, "If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek." To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that by "Melologue," I mean that mixture of recitation of music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.

T.M.



MELOLOGUE



A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.

There breathes a language known and felt Far as the pure air spreads its living zone; Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt, That language of the soul is felt and known. From those meridian plains, Where oft, of old, on some high tower The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains, And called his distant love with such sweet power, That, when she heard the lonely lay, Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,[1] To the bleak climes of polar night, Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky, The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly, And sings along the lengthening waste of snow, Gayly as if the blessed light Of vernal Phoebus burned upon his brow; Oh Music! thy celestial claim Is still resistless, still the same; And, faithful as the mighty sea To the pale star that o'er its realm presides, The spell-bound tides Of human passion rise and fall for thee!