The stream was black, it sounded deep It offer'd well, for madness fired She plunged in, the torrent moan'd -But oft The maid was seen no more.- At midnight's silent, solemn hour, A BALLAD. BE hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, Oh! cruel was my faithless love, To leave the breast by him betray'd. When exiled from my native home, He should have wiped the bitter tear; Nor left me faint and lone to roam, A heart-sick weary wanderer here. Р My child moans sadly in my arms, The winds they will not let it sleep: Ah, little knows the hapless babe What makes its wretched mother weep! Now lie thee still, my infant dear, And never will he shelter thee. Oh, that I were but in my grave, THE LULLABY OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO SLEEP, baby mine,* enkerchieft on my bosom, Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast; Sleep, baby mine, not long thou❜lt have a mother To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining? Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled; Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, And I would fain compose my aching head. Sir Philip Sidney has a poem, beginning" Sleep, baby mine." Poor wayward wretch! and who will heed thy weeping, When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be? Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping In her low grave of shame and infamy? Sleep, baby mine-To-morrow I must leave thee, And I would snatch an interval of rest: Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee, For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. OH! yonder is the well known spot, Where I shall rest, no more to roam! But all their charms could not prevail Of distant climes the false report It bade me rove- -my sole support Now safe return'd, 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, |