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And are the moments past

The loved ones flown?
And must we part at last,

To weep alone?
Must friendship's wreath be torn?

The withered garland lie
Like relics in an urn,

And fond ones sigh?

Must hearts long blest and true

Be severed now?
And all we cherished too

To sorrow bow?
Has parting dimmed the ray

That shone in friendship's sky,
As evening shades the day

When sunbeams die?

/ The joyous hours are fled

Like spring's young flowers! The beautiful are dead

In life's gay bowers! No more, in union sweet,

Our hearts will here agree, We never more may meet

In harmony!

Ah, shall we meet no more

While life shall last,
Along this dreary shore

To wake the past?
We may not meet below,

But will in realms above;
And there forever know

The friends we love!



Hail to the eagle's flight of glory,

Now soaring mid the northern skies; Fair Freedom's eagle—be his story

The same where'er his pinions rise.

From his bright glance the sunlight streaming

First gave Columbia's stars to shine,

Then coloured France's rainbow sign;

And now o'er half the world is beaming.

March on, march on, ye brave,

To triumph or to fall:
March on, march on, Sarmatia's sons,
March forward, one and all.

Hark! from the desert's farthest regions

The shouting Cossacks rend the air; Though victors o'er the Moslem legions,

They know not all that patriots dare.

Fair Poland's plains before them lying,

No Balkan heights now intervene,

No mountain barriers rise between,

The fierce invader's course defying.

"Come on, come on, ye slaves,

In soul, at least, we're free:
Come on, come on, our bodies now
Your Balkan ridge shall be."

Then wealth was lavished without measure

To aid that cause, all else above;
And woman gave her heart's fond treasure,

The sacred ring of married love.
Oh! noble race—still, still we cherish
The mem'ry of thy gallant son,
Who came to aid us ere we won
The glorious wreath that ne'er shall perish.
Advance, advance the flags—
The standards of the free—
Look down, look down, Kosciusko's shade,
We wave them now for thee.




Oh wake thee, lady, wake—

The stars are on the sea, And their holy torches burn

But for thee, love, for thee! Oh! wake thee, lady, wake—

In the day's sweet prime Other voices whisper thee,

Winning tones from thine:

But at night, but at night,

Wake for me, wake for me, When the burning stars are bright

On the quiet sea. When the moon is softly beaming

As I come to thee, And the jasmine buds are gleaming,

Wake thee, love, for me.

As a holy torch that shineth,

Though no eye may see,
As a sun that ne'er declineth,

Is my love for thee.
Then wake thee, lady mine,

And keep thy tryst to-night,
While the moon is on the sea,

And the holy stars are bright.

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