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She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking:
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the

From her own loved Island of Sorrow ! [west,

FAREWELL! BUT, WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. FAREWELL! but, whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return—not a hope may remain of the few that have brightend his pathway of painBut he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw Its enchantment around him while lingering with

you !

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles;
Too bless'd if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmur'd, “I wish he were

here!" Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;

Which come, in the nighttime of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd! Like the vase in which roses have once been distillid; You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.


I'd mourn the hopes that leave me,

If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep when friends deceive me,

If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But, while I've thee before me,

With heart so warm and eyes so bright,
No clouds can linger o'er me-

That smile turns them all to light!
"Tis not in fate to harm me,

While fate leaves thy love to me;
'Tis not in joy to charm me,

Unless joy be shared with thee.
One minute's dream about thee

Were worth a long, an endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,

My own love, my only dear!
And, though the hope be gone, love,

That long sparkled o’er our way,
Oh! we shall journey on, love,

More safely without its ray.
Far better lights shall win me

Along the path I've yet to roam ;
The mind that burns within me,

And pure smiles from thee at home.
Thus, when the lamp that lighted

The traveller at first goes out,
He feels a while benighted,

And looks around in fear and doubt.

But soon, the prospect clearing,

By cloudless starlight on he treads,
And thinks no lamp so cheering

As that light which Heaven sheds !


In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,

And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright beaming world of our own,

And the light that surrounds us is all from within: Oh, it is not, believe me, in that happy time

We can love as in hours of less transport we may: Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime,

But affection is warmest when these fade away.

When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,

Like a leaf on the streani that will never return; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so

high, First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn; Then, then is the moment affection can sway

With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; Love nursed among pleasures is faithless as they,

But the love born of sorrow, like sorrow, is true!

In climes full of sunshine, though splendid their dyes,

Yet faint is the odour the flowers shed about ; 'Tis the clouds and the mists of our own weeping

That call the full spirit of fragrancy out. (skies So the wild glow of passion may kindle from mirth,

But 'tis only in grief true affection appears ; And, even though to smiles it may first owe its birth,

All the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.


WHEN cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved,

Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then; Or if from their slumber the veil be removed,

Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again. And oh! if 'tis pain to remember how far [roam,

From the pathways of light he was tempted to Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star

That arose on his darkness and guided him home. From thee and thy innocent beauty first came

The revealings that taught him true love to adore, To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame

From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. O'er the waves of a life long benighted and wild,

Thou camest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea; And if happiness purely and glowingly smiled

On his evening horizon, the light was from thee. And though sometimes the shade of past foliy would

rise, And though falsehood again would allure him to

stay, He but turn'd to the glory that dwelt in those eyes,

And the folly, the falsehood soon vanish'd away. As the priests of the sun, when their altar grew dim,

At the daybeam alone could its lustre repair, So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him,

He but few to that smile, and rekindled it there.


The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking

Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,

And smiles are near that once enchanted, Unreach'd by all that sunshine round, My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted

By thee, thee, only thee. Whatever in fame's high path could waken My spirit once, is now

forsaken For thee, thee, only thee. Like shores, by which some headlong bark

To the ocean hurries—resting never-
Lise's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever

To thee, thee, only thee.
I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet, when springing

From thee, thee, only thee. Like spells that naught on earth can break,

Till lips that know the charm have spoken, This heart, howe'er the world may wake Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken

By thee, thee, only thee.


THOSE evening bells ! those evening bells !
How many a tale their music tells,
Or 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 !

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