Our morn is gone, the day is past,
The ev'ning closes round us now,
Long shadows o'er the vale are cast,
But light still gilds the mountain's brow;
And when at last the sun goes down,
And ev'ry ling'ring ray has set,
The night assumes her silver crown,
And we shall have our moonlight yet.
Tho' days are gone when you and I, &c.
OH, LET ME ONLY BREATHE THE
OH! let me only breathe the air,
The blessed air that's breathed by thee!
And whether on its wings it bear
Healing or death-'tis sweet to me.
There drink my tears while yet they fall,
Would that my bosom's blood were balm,
And well thou know'st I'd shed it all
To give thy brow one minute's calm.
Nay, turn not from me that dear face,
Am I not thine-thy own loved bride,
The one-the chosen one, whose place,
In life or death, is by thy side?
Think'st thou that she whose only light
In this dim world from thee hath shone
Could bear the long and cheerless night,
That must be hers when thou art gone?
That I can live and let thee go
Who art my life itself? No-no!
When the stem dies the leaf that grew
Out of its heart must perish too.
IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS
MOMENT SHED.*
Ir is not the tear at this moment shed,
When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how belov'd was the friend that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;
'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded.
Thus his memory, like some holy light,
Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,
For worth shall look fairer and truth more bright,
When we think how he liv'd but to love them.
And as fresher flowers the sod perfume,
Where buried saints are lying,
So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom
From the image he left there in dying!
FAIN Would I love, but that I fear
I quickly should the willow wear;
Fain would I marry, but men say,
When love is tied, he will away:
Then tell me, love, what shall I do
To cure these fears whene'er I woo?
This song was occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative of the author's, who died at Madeira.
Henry Lawes, born in 1600, was the composer of the original music of Milton's "Comus," produced in Î634.
The fair one she's a mark to all,
The brown each one doth lovely call,
The black's a pearl in fair men's eyes,
The rest will stoop at any prize :
Then tell me, love, what shall I do
To cure these fears whene'er I woo?
Young lover, know it is not I
That wound with fear or jealousy ;
Nor do men ever feel these smarts
Until they have confined their hearts;
Then, if you'll cure your fears, you shall
Love neither fair, black, brown,--but all.
SHE CAME TO US IN SUMMER-TIME.
[Music by JOHN FULCHER.
SHE came to us in summer-time
When fragrance fill'd the bow'rs,
And, in her dazzling beauty, seem'd
A queen amid the flow'rs;
Her cheeks-they wore the roses' hue,
Her brow was lily white;
Her eyes they shamed the violets' blue,
They shone so softly bright.
She came to us in summer-time
When all was bright and fair,
But earth own'd not a beauteous flow'r,
That with her could compare.
She came to us in summer-time,
And as the years depart,
Oh! never may she cease to feel
The sunshine of the heart;
And when life's sunset hour arrives,
Still rosy may it beam,
O'er her whose life was like a bright
And joyous summer-dream!
She came, &c.
MY NAME IS FOND DESIRE.
[EARL OF OXFORD, 1560.]
COME hither, shepherd-swain;
Sir, what do you require?
I prithee show to me thy name?
My name is fond desire.
Tell me who was thy nurse?
Fresh youth in sugar'd joy;
What was thy meat and daily food?
Sad sighs with great annoy.
What lulled thee asleep?
Sweet speech, which likes me best:
Tell me where is thy dwelling-place?
In gentle hearts I rest.
Doth either time or age
Bring thee unto decay?
No, no desire both lives and dies
Ten thousand times a day.
Then fond desire farewell!
Thou art no mate for me;
I should be loth, methinks, to dwell
With such a one as thee.
HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS
[Air" Sly Patrick."
HAS sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
That even in sorrow were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wings wither
Each feeling that once was dear?
Come, child of misfortune! come hither,
I'll weep with thee tear for tear.
Has love to that soul so tender
Been like our Lagenian mine,
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine?
But if in pursuit we go deeper,
Allur'd by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like love, the bright ore is gone.
Has hope, like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory-
Has hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?
If thus the sweet hours have fleeted,
When sorrow herself look'd bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,
That led thee along so light,
If thus the unkind world wither
Each feeling that once was dear;
Come, child of misfortune! come hither,
I'll weep with thee tear for tear.
[To gather the dew from the flowers on May-morning, before the sun has risen, is reckoned a bond of peculiar power between lovers.]
COME with me, love, I'm seeking
A spell in the young year's flowers;
The magical May-dew is weeping
Its charm o'er the summer bow'rs;
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