A LOVE SONG. GIVE me but thy heart, though cold; I ask no more! Give to others gems and gold; But leave me poor. Give to whom thou wilt thy smiles; But let thy tears flow fast and free, Giv'st thou but one look, sweet heart! A word no more! It is Music's sweetest part, 'Tis a part I fain would learn, So pr'ythee, here thy lessons turn, All Love's pleasures-all its woes! WHEN the wind blows In the sweet rose-tree, And the cow lows On the fragrant lea, And the stream flows All bright and free, 'Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me, Tis not for any one here, I trow: O the Spring! the bountiful Spring! Where come the sheep? To the rich man's moor. Where cometh sleep? To the bed that's poor. Peasants must weep, And kings endure; THE BLOOD HORSE. GAMARRA is a dainty steed, Look! how 'round his straining throat And the red blood gallops through his veins- Through the boasting heart of man. He, who hath no peer, was born He lived (none else would he obey THE STRANGER. A STRANGER came to a rich man's door, He came next spring, with a smile as gay, And he came once more, when the spring was bits, And bore her away-yet nobody knew The name of the fearful guest! Next year, there was none but the rich man left- And sought through the land-in vain! But, wherever his terrible smile had been, THE HEART-BROKEN. GENTLE Mother, do not weave Garlands for my forehead pale! Unto hearts that e'er must grieve, What do crowns avail ? Tell me not of bridal flowers: What are they when life is past? Tell me not of happy hours, When they flee so fast! Bind thy cypress round my heart! Hide me in the mortal pal! Show them, when all hopes depart, What sad things befall! I am dead, a statue, left Pointing perils out unknown, Shorn of life, and love-bereft, All my youth o'erthrown! All o'erthrown! SONG OF THE OUTCAST. I was born on a winter's morn, Who left me here, with a laugh, and-died; With treble my strength of hate and scorn! I was born by a sudden shock Born by the blow of a ruffian sire, Gives out the reddening roaring fire. And bade me go forth-to slay and steal! A PHANTASY. FEED her with the leaves of Love, (Love, the rose, that blossoms here!) Music, gently 'round her move! Bind her to the cypress near! 'Tis a little stricken deer, Sooth her with sad stories, O poet, till she sleep! Dreams, come forth with all your glories! If she steal away to weep, Round and round, Round and round, With your bands of softest sound; Such as we, at night-fall, hear In the wizard forest near, When the charmed Maiden sings AN IRISH SONG. AIR-KATHLEEN O'MORE. He is gone to the wars, and has left me alone, The poor Irish soldier, unfriended, unknown, My husband, my Patrick, The bird of my bosom-though now he is flown! Perhaps he now thinks of poor Ellen no more! A cabin we had, and the cow was hard by, Ne'er idle while light ever lived in the sky. We married-too young, and it's likely too poor, Till they tempted and took him away from our door. Alas! the poor Patrick! He has left me a bird that is sweeter than all. 'Twas born in a hovel, 'twas nourished in pain, But it came in my grief, like a light on the brain, (The child of poor Patrick), And taught me to hope for bright fortune again. And now we two wander from door unto loor, And, sometimes we steal back to happy Lismore, And ask for poor Patrick; And dream of the days when all wars will be o'er. HOME.-(A DUET.) He. Dost thou love wandering? Whither wouldst thou go? She. O, yes, I love the woods and streams, so gay, Let's seek that country of all countries-Home! My heart is wandering round our ancient home. He. Why, then, we'll go. Farewell, ye tender skies, Who sheltered us, when we were forced to roam! She. On, on! Let's pass the swallow as he flies! Farewell. kind land! Now, father, now-for Home' THE VINTAGE SONG. O THE merry vintage-time! The merry, matchless vintage-time! What can vie Beneath the sky With the merry merry vintage-time? We have tongues that music shed Still, and a song for vintage-time! Come!-O'er the hills the moon is glancing! Now's the happy vintage-time, The happy honor'd vintage-time! Doth mix in mirth With us, her sons, at vintage-time. Flooding rain, nor frosty rime; But the sunny Autumn now Laugheth out-""Tis vintage-time."-Come &c. Praise, then, all the vintage-time, Who know the joys Of the merry fruitful vintage-time! Leave to Spring the love-sweet flowers; Winter still its song and rhyme; Summer all her balmy hours; Still we've our dance at vintage-time !-Come &c. THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL. How gallantly, how merrily, We ride along the sea! The morning is all sunshine, The wind is blowing free: And bounding in the light, Strange birds about us sweep; The masters of the deep. Follows even the bold shark- Who've fought for him, and conquered- To lose a dozen drops of blood, "Some day I'll make thee carry me, And smiled upon his crew; Till all chances he defied: It threw boldness on his forehead; That night, a horrid whisper Among the billows in our lee! It was slung into the deep! And never, from that momentSave one shudder through the sea, Saw we (or heard) the shark That had followed in our lee! LOVE AND MIRTH. WHAT Song doth the cricket sing? What say all ?-Love and Mirth! Is the natural song of Earth. Mark the Morn, when first she springe What say they?—Love and Mirta, fc. With the leaves the apples wrestle; Mirth and Love-Love and Mirth, da Is it Mirth? Then why will man Bid him sing "Love and Mirth!" SONG OVER A CHILD. DREAM, Baby, dream! The stars are glowing. 'Tis softly flowing. "Till dawn to-morrow! Why shouldst thou weep, Who know'st not sorrow? Too soon comes pains and fe. } No sadness borrow! Dream, Baby, dream! It saith, "Ee calm, be sure, THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BRIDAL. Now, what shady wreath wilt wear, Bid them bind the veil with care, Let thine eye have gentle light It is now the youth of May, Choose thou, then, at blush of day, Bashful be, 'midst all their light, Then-as hopes aye mix with fears, Thrice his first sweet pure delight, A DEEP AND A MIGHTY SHADOW A DEEP and a mighty shadow Across my heart is thrown, Like a cloud on a summer meadow, Where the Thunder-wind hath blown The wild-rose, Fancy, dieth, The sweet bird, Memory, flieth, And leaveth me alone Alone with my hopeless Sorrow: I strive to awake To-morrow; But the dull words will not flow! I pra7-but my prayers are driven Aside, by the angry Heaven, And weigh me down with wo! I call on the Past, to lend me A light from its eyes-in vain! And rivulets sing Like birds in spring? For me-I will take my stand On Land, on Land! For ever and ever on solid Land! !ve sailed on the riotous roaring sea, et my village home more pleaseth me, And its grassy mead Where the white flocks feed: And so I will take my stand For ever and ever on solid Land! Some swear they could die on the salt salt sea When the tempest is waking, And the winds and the thunders But for me I will take my stand For ever and ever on solid Land! PERDITA. THE nest of the dove is rifled; Alas! alas! The dream of delight is stifled; Of beauty and hope is broken; His love was as fragrant ever, His voice like the mournful river; I am sick, like the dove bereaved, THE WEAVER'S SONG. WEAVE, brothers, weave!-Swiftly throw And show us how brightly your flowers grow, Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes, The violet, deep as your true love's eyes, Sing-sing, brothers! weave and sing! Weave, brothers, weave!-Weave, and bid Let grace in each gliding thread be hid! Let beauty about ye blow! Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine, And time nor chance shall your work untwine; So-sing, brothers, &c. Weave, brothers, weave!-Toil is ours; One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers, There is not a creature, from England's king, To the peasant that delves the soil, That knows half the pleasures the seasons bring If he have not his share of toil! So-sing brothers, &c. SLEEP ON. SLEEP on! The world is vain : If there be a dream of joy, It comes in slumber, pretty boy! Hang upon his eyelids deep; Sleep on! Let no bad truth Hang upon his eyelids deep; LOVE THE POET, PRETTY ONE! LOVE the poet, pretty one! He unfoldeth knowledge fair- He can teach thee how to reap Heed not, though at times he seem But 'twill pass away. Caught from air and heaven above: Others, how-to love! How from sweet to sweet to rove How all evil things to shun: Should I not then whisper, "LoveLove the poet, pretty one"? LUCY. LUCY is a golden girl; But a man-a man should woo her! They who seek her shrink aback, When they should, like storms, pursue her. All her smiles are hid in light; All her hair is lost in splendor; But she hath the eyes of Night, And a heart that's over-tender. Yet, the foolish suiters fly (Is't excess of dread or duty ?) From the starlight of her eye, Leaving to neglect her beauty! Men by fifty seasons taught, Leave her to a young beginner, Who, without a second thought, Whispers, woos, and straight must win her. Lucy is a golden girl! Toast her in a goblet brimming! May the man that wins her wear On his heart the Rose of Women! THE WOOING SONG. O PLEASANT is the fisher's life, And pleasant is the hunter's life, And pleasant is the sailor's life, On the seas abiding! But, oh! the merry life is wooing, is wooing ; The hunter, when the chase is done, The poet, at the set of sun, Sigheth deep, and thinketh; The sailor, though from sea withdrawn, Dreams he's half seas over, The fisher dreameth of the dawn, But, what dreams the lover? He dreams that the merry life is wooing, is wooing; Never overtaking, and always pursuing ! Some think that life is very long, And murmur at the measure; Some think it is a syren song A short, false, fleeting pleasure; Some sigh it out in gloomy shades, Thinking naught, nor doing; But we'll ne'er think it gloomy, Maids! For, sure, the merry life is wooing, is wooing; HERMIONE. THOU hast beauty bright and fair, Thou hast reason quick and strong, And a voice, itself a song! What then can we still desire ? Something thou dost wan., O queen! This is all we ask from thes THE OWL. IN the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, But at night, when the woods grow still and dim, O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then is the reign of the Horned Owl! And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And loveth the wood's deep gloom; And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone coll, Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, O, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl! Then, then is the joy of the Horned Owl! Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight! The Owl hath his share of good: If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate So, when the night falls and dogs do howl, Who are kings by day, But the King of the night is the bold brown Ow!! THE HUMBER FERRY. BOATMAN, hither! Furl your sail! Row us o'er the Humber ferry! Furl it close! The blustering gale Seems as he would fain be merry. Pleasant is he, when in fun He blows about the bud or berry; But his mirth we fain would shun Out upon the Humber ferry! Now, bold fisher, shall we go With thee o'er the Humber river? Hear'st thou how the blast doth blow? See'st thou how thy sail doth shiver? Wilt thou dare (dismayed by naught) Wind and wave, thou bold sea-liver? And shall we, whom Love hath taught, Tremble at the rolling river? Row us forth! Unfurl thy sail! Love shall warm and make us merry; Though the waves all weave a shroud, We will dare the Hun ber ferry ! |