The lingering strains, that swell'd in ages gone, The music of the wake-oh! many an ear, Raised from the pillow gentle sleep hath flown, Lists with delight, while blend the smile and tear, As recollections rise of many a vanish'd year.
It speaks of former scenes-of days gone byOf early friendships-of the loved and lostAnd wakes such music in the heart, as sigh Of evening wooes from harp-strings gently crost; And thoughts and feelings crowd-a varied host, O'er the lone bosom from their slumbers deep, Unfelt amidst its winter's gathering frost, Till the soft spell of music o'er it creep, And thaw the ice away, and bid the dreamer weep!
THOU shalt sing to me
When the waves are sleeping,
And the winds are creeping
'Round the embowering chestnut tree.
Thou shalt sing by night,
When no birds are calling,
And the stars are falling
Brightly from their mansions bright.
Of those thy song shall tell
From whom we've never parted,
The young, the tender-hearted,
The gay, and all who loved us well.
But we'll not profane
Such a gentle hour,
Nor our favourite bower,
With a thought that tastes of pain.
GONE from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her lip has lost all its faint perfume:
And the gloss has dropp'd from her golden hair,
And her cheek is pale, but no longer fair.
And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye,
Is struck with cold mortality;
And the smile that play'd round her lip has fled,
And every charm has now left the dead.
Like slaves they obey'd her in height of power,
But left her all in her wintry hour;
And the crowds that swore for her love to die,
Shrunk from the tone of her last faint sigh.
-And this is man's fidelity!
'Tis Woman alone, with a purer heart,
Can see all these idols of life depart,
And love the more, and smile and bless
Man in his uttermost wretchedness.
THE MARINER'S SONG.
A WET sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
A way the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.
"O! for a soft and gentle wind,"
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free,
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free,
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
FROM THE SERVIAN.
AGAINST white Buda's walls a vine
Doth its white branches fondly twine :
O no! it was no vine-tree there-
It was a fond and faithful pair
Bound each to each in earliest vow,
And O! they must be sever'd now;
And these their farewell words :-" We part!
Break from my bosom-break my heart!
Go to a garden-go and see
Some rose-branch blushing on the tree,
And from that branch a rose-flower tear,
Then place it in thy bosom bare;
And as its leaflets fade and pine,
So fades my sinking heart in thine."
And thus the other spoke :-"
My love!
A few short paces backward move,
And to the verdant forest go;
There's a fresh water-fount below,
And in the fount a marble stone
Which a gold cup reposes on,
And in the cup a ball of snow :
Love! take that ball of snow to rest
Upon thine heart, within thy breast;
And as it melts unnoticed there,
So melts my heart in thine, my dear."
A WOMAN'S FAREWELL.
FARE THEE WELL!-'Tis meet we part, Since other ties and hopes are thine; Pride that can nerve the lowliest heart Will surely strengthen mine!
I will wipe my tears away,
Repress each struggling sigh,
Call back the thoughts thou led'st astray,
Then lay me down and die!
Fare thee well!-I'll not upbraid
Thy fickleness or falsehood now;
Can the wild taunts of love betray'd
Repair one broken vow?
But if reproach may wake regret
In one so false or weak,
Think what I was when first we met
And read it on my cheek.
Fare thee well!-On yonder tree
One leaf is fluttering to the blast,
Wither'd and sere-a type of me→→→
For I shall fade as fast!
Whilst many a refuge still hast thou,
Thy wandering heart to save
From the keen pangs that wring mine now,
I have but one-the Grave!
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