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Ah, sweet! be free to love and go,

For if I do not hear thy foot,
The frozen river is as mute :

The flow'rs have dried down to the root,
And why, since these be changed since May
Shouldst thou change less than they?
And slow, slow as the winter snow,

The tears have drifted to mine eyes ;
And my poor cheeks five months ago,
Set blushing at thy praises so-

Put paleness on--for a disguise.
Ab, weet! be free to praise and go,

For if my face is turned to pale,
It was thine oath that first did fail;

It was thy love prov'd false and fruil.
And why, since these be changed now,
Should I change less than thou ?


[Music by J. L. HATTON. See yon lark in ether floating,

Wafting forth his native lays ;
Each melodious bar denoting

'Tis an earnest song of praise !
View him upward, onward drifting,

Twards the realms where angels throng,
Music's very soul seems lifting,

With that joyous bird of song !
Hark! the envoy seems revealing

Nature's grateful mission now;
Or what else those sweet notes stealing

On the ear entranced below!
Like a seraph's voice it soundeth,

Borne on zephyr's wings along ;
Stol'n from realms where joy aboundeth,

By yon culprit thing of song!.

Now the truant's homeward flinging,

Laden with love's notes he flies;
As it were a cherul bringing

Some sweet message from the skies !
Happy warbler, thus to revel,

Up so near the heavenly throng!
Happier still, no more to travel

Back, like yonder bird of song !


PART SONG. From the German.]

[Music by H. SMART. The Rhine is gently flowing,

The night is calm and still,
And purple grapes are glowing

On ev'ry vine-clad hill;
And yonder in the moonlight,

That stately form behold !
With sword and mantle

Of purple and of gold !
'Tis Karl, the brave, the fearless,

Once ruler of this land,
Who sway'd, with wisdom peerless,

The sceptre of command.

And now, as legends tell us,

At night he leaves his toub,
To bless the purple clusters,

And breathe their rich perfume ;
But ere the dawn of morning,

The figure glides away,
And sinks again to slumber

In his marble tomb at Aix.
In mem'ry of our hero,

In honour of our vine,
Let's drink to Karl the Kaiser,

A cup of Rhenish wine.


Music by her sister.
BRIGHTLY, brightly hast thou fled,
Ere one grief had bow'd thy head,

Brightly didst thou part !
With thy young thoughts pure from spot,
With thy fond love wasted not,

With thy bounding heart.

Ne'er by sorrow to be wet,
Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet,

Ere with dust o'erspread :
Lilies ne'er by tens pest blown,
White rose which no stain bath known,

Be about thee sbed!

So we give thee to the earth,
And the primrose shall have birth

O'er thy gentle head;
Thou, that like a dewdrop borne
On a sudden breeze of morn,

Brightly thou hast fled !


Music by W. VINNICOMBE. THERE's an old farm-house at the foot of the hill,

That was built in the days of yore,
With its quaint red barn, and rickety mill,

And a vine-covered porch by the door ;
There's a crumbling wall, where the ivy doth cling,

And an oak that looks noble and great, As though he were proud of the children who swing,

'Neath his boughs on the old farm gate, For there merry hearts are with joy elate,

As they ride to and fro on the old farm gate.

As the worthy old farmer sits under the tree,

Or round by the pigeon-house strays;
He watches the boys in the height of their glee,

And thinks of his earlier days;
In the evening, when all is quiet and still,

As the clock in the village strikes eight,
There is some one hastening down the hill,

On his way to the old farm gate ;
It is William coming to meet his Kate,
Just under the oak by the old farm gate.

I have roamed through the vales of a summer land,

Where nature smiles beauteous and fair ;
I have heard the wild lay of the mountain band,

Softly floating along on the air;
But my soul has filed backwards on memory's wing,

To the home of its happier state ;
Where the wild birds sing, and the children swing,

On the top of the old farm gate.
I sigh not for riches, or pompous state; *
My heart clings to home by the old farm gate.


[Music hy CLARIBEL. When the breath of English meadows

Is fragrant on the breeze,
And the flowers in my own garden

Are musical with bees :
In the calm and pleasant evenings

Will ye think of her who died,
Where the summer hath no twilight,

Where the salt sea hath no tide ?

Then when your lips shall name me,

Without grief or gloom,
My spirit like a sunbeam,

Shall glide into the room.

In the glimmer of the moonlight,

Round your closely curtained beds,
It may be mine to hover,

With white wings o'er your heads.
I may listen to your laughter,

I may watch o'er you in pain;
Will ye think of me, my darlings,

When ye see me not again!
In the sweet home where I nursed you,

Will ye think of her who died,
Where the summer hath no twilight,

Where the salt sea hath no tide ?


PART SONG. From the German of L. Uhland.] [Music by H. SYART. THERE came three trav’llers over the Rhine, They stopped at an inn, and they cali'd for some wine. Mine Hostess, you bring us right excellent wine, But prythee now where's that fair daughter of ttine ?

My masters, I bring you good wine, cool and clear,
But alas ! my young daughter lies dead, on her bier.
They enter the chamber with slow solemn tread,
And lo ! on her bier the fair maiden lay dead.
The first, he stepp'd forward and lifted the veil,
And wept as he gaz'd on that form cold and pale,
Ah ! couldst thou, sweet maid, from Death's clutch be

set free,
I'd swear from this moment to love only thee.

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