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Nothing she needs,

Sadly I strew
Funeral weeds,

Myrtle and rue,
Over the tomb

Worn by my knees
Under your gloom,

Sorrowful trees.

Winters may freeze,

Summers may burn,
Sorrowful trees,

Sombre and stern;
Seasons may range,

Ages may roll,
Nought can estrange

Grief from my soul :
Still my heart bleeds,

Therefore I strew
Funeral weeds,

Myrtle and rue,
Where she is laid,

Sleeping at ease
Under your shade,

Sorrowful trees.


Ye mariners of Spain

Bend strongly on your oars,
And bring my love again,

For he lies among the Moors.
Ye galleys fairly built

Like castles on the sea,
Oh, great will be your guilt

If ye bring him not to me!

The wind is blowing strong,

The breeze will aid your oars,
O swiftly fiv along,

For he lies among the Moors !
The fresh breeze of the sea

Cools every cheek but mine,
O hot is its breath tu me

As I gaze upon the brine !

Lift up, lift up your sail

And bend upon your oars,
O lose not the fair gale,

For he lies among the Moors !
It is a narrow strait,

I see the blue hills over,
Your coming I'll await,

And thank you for my lover.
To Mary I will pray

While ye bend upon your oars,
'Twill be a blessed day

If ye fetch hin from the Moors.

ROW, GALLANT COMRADES, ROW. [Tune" Row well, ye mariners.” 16th century.]

Row, gallant comrades, row,

The sun is near his western bed;
Upon the waters glow

Unuuinber'd gems of gorgeous red;
The stars that peer to usher night,
Scarce reveal their trembling light;
Before the silver moon we see,
Safe at home we all should be.

Then row well, row well,
No breath upon the water stirs,

Then row well, row well,
With all your might, ye mariners.

Row, gallant comrades, row,

The log is crackling on the hearth,
Kind voices, well we know,

Will greet us with the sound of mirth.
The cares that fill the anxious breast,
Soon we'll lull to happy rest,
And drooping spirits we shall cheer :
Row ! the welcome shore is near.

Then row, &c.


[Music by E. F. RIMBAULT. BRIGHT things can never die,

E'en though they fade,
Beauty and iinstrelsy

Deathless were made.
What though the summer day

Passes away,
Doth not the moon's soft ray

Silence the night?
Kind words can never die,

Saith my philosophy;
Deep in the soul they lie,

All know how dear.
Like childhood's simple rlymes

Said o'er a thousand times,
Ay, in all years and climes,

Distant and near.
Childhood can never die ;

Wrecks of the past,
Float on our memory,

E'en to the last.
Sweet fancies never die,
They leave behind
Some fairy legacy

Stored in the wind,


AND have I lost thee?
Is thy love a dream of other days ?
Can act of mine no longer move
Thy censure or thy praise ?
I miss thee from the lonely hearth-
I miss thy quiet smile !
Tby voice with its melodious mirth,
Thy lips that knew not guile !
I gaze on thine accustom'd place,
But strangers fill it now;
Alas ! and is there left no trace
Of one so lov'd as thou ?
And have-have I lost thee?

And have I lost thee?
Must I learn to live through lonely years ?
To seek for love in eyes that turn
All coldly from my tears ?
Thy silent home !--none greet me there,
None speak to me of thee !
Our ancient haunts no longer wear
Familiar looks to me!
Restore, thou silent tomb, restore
The young hopes thou hast slain !
Give back the lov'd and lost once more !
Give me mine own again !
And have I lost thee?


[Music by J. P. KNIGHT,
Mayst thou be happy each coming day,
Some gleam of sunshine still round thee play,
True hearts to greet thee and meet thy caress,
Friends to adore and one loved one to bless ;

Though I have proffered my friendship in vain,
Striven, but vainly, thy young heart to gain ;
Why should I not wish thee well in my heart
Mayst thou be happy although we must part.
Mayst thou be happy-it was not to be
Thy future lot should be centred in me,
Tho' I was true as the earth to the sun,
Love, to be perfect, is two hearts in one ;
All that I ask is, remember me still
As one who'd have bow'd to thy wish or thy will, -
Who sought not thy wealth, but thy hand and thy

heart ;--
Mayst thou be happy, although we must part.


[Air-“Dermot." TAKE back the virgin page,

White and unwritten still ;
Some hand more calm and sage

The leaf must fill,
Thoughts come as pure as light,

Pure as even you require;
But, on : each word I write,

Love turns to fire.
Yet let me keep the book ;

Oft shall my beart renew,
When on its leaves I look,

Dear thoughts of you.
Like you, 'lis fair and bright;

Like you, too bright and fair
To let wila passions write

One wrong wish there.
Haply, when froin those eyes

Far, far away, I roam,
Should calmer thoughts arise

Towards you and hume,

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