And the bride maidens whispered, "Twere better by far, To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochvar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, "She is won! we are gone over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see; So daring in love, and so dauntless in, war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar. SWEETS OF AFFECTION. WHEN I first saw the youth who to me came a wooing, Down by yon banks where the waves gently flow, "Twas there the soft language my courage subduing, First taught me the sweets of affection to know. 'Twas there he sang gayly, my fancy entrancing, That I scarcely believ'd that the night was advancing, The moon beam'd so gay, the waves' tops were dancing, Dawn by yon banks where the waves gently flow. I strove not to listen, but how could I deceive him, THE LIGHT HOUSE. BY THOMAS MOORE. THE Scene was more beautiful far to my eye Look'd pure as the Spirit that made it. The murmur rose soft as I silently gaz'd, Like a star in the midst of the ocean. No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast, One moment I look'd from the hill's gentle slope; And tho't that the Light-house look'd lovely as hope, That star of life's tremulous ocean. The time is long past, and the scene is afar, In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, THE AMERICAN CAPTIVE. LAND of my birth, farewell! The sea rolls dark; The golded sun behind yon waves descending, Now lights yon hills. Now is the soaring lark Her sweetest notes with nature's mattins ending; And now my Mary's prayer to Heaven ascending, May bless these arms with home and liberty. Ah! no my soul! This awful gloom impending, And death-like shades that glide along the sea, Whisper, Poor, lonely sailor, home is not for thee Early my youthful bosom sought the strife That laid, alas! my gallant father low; Early my mother taught her son that life Bereft of freedom he must never know; Yet, from aloft do British streamers flow! Mary, a long farewell! My pangs are o'er ; My soul her anchor weighs; and, when the glow Of early morn illumes yon darksome shore, This form shall soundly sleep, though Indian billows roar. THE POST CAPTAIN. WHEN Steerwell heard me first impart Resolv'd to gain a valiant name, For bold adventure eager, When first a little cabin boy on board the Fame, He would hold on the jigger. While ten jolly tars, with musical Joe, For none to the pilot e'er answered like he, a-lee.' For valour, skill, and worth renown'd, And now with fame and fortune crown'd, Who, should our injur'd country bleed, Unaw'd, yet mild to high and low, All the fleet drink his health— Priz'd be such hearts, for aloft they must go, THE STREAMLET THAT FLOWED A Popular Air. THE streamlet that flow'd round her cot, How oft has its course been forgot, 163236 Believe me, the fond silver tide Knew from whence it deriv'd the fair prize, For silently swelling with pride, It reflected her back to the skies. THE WOOD ROBIN. STAY, Sweet enchanter of the grove, Rest thy soft bosom on the spray, But soon as spring enrich'd with flowers, SAID A SMILE TO A TEAR. SAID a smile to a tear, On the cheek of my dear, And beamed like the sun in spring weather, It strange must appear, That we should be both here together. |