My cymbals and my saraband. The woody dell, the hanging rock, The chamois skipping o'er the heights; The plain adorned with many a flock, And, oh! a thousand more delights, That grace yon dear beloved retreat, Have backward won my weary feet. Now safe returned, with wandering tired, A PASTORAL SONG. COME, Anna! come, the morning dawns, Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies; Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, And watch the early lark arise; While nature, clad in vesture gay, Hails the loved return of day. Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade And watch the silver clouds above, Come, Anna! come, and bring thy lute, And then at eve, when silence reigns, MELODY. YES, once more that dying strain, Anna, touch thy lute for me; While the Virtues thus enweave Mildly soft the thrilling song, Thus when life hath stolen away, SONG. BY WALLER. A Lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to the Author, and when he returned them to her, she discovered an additional stanza written by him at the bottom of the song here copied. Go, lovely rose ! Tell her, that wastes her time on me, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share, [Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; That Goodness Time's rude hand defies, That Virtue lives when Beauty dies. H. K. WHITE.] THE WANDERING BOY. A SONG. WHEN the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door; comfortless eye, When the chilling tear stands in my The winter is cold, and I have no vest, Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, But The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, CANZONET. MAIDEN! wrap thy mantle round thee, |