If ever yet my bosom found
Its thoughts one moment turned from thee, 'Twas when the combat raged around,
And brave men looked to me.
But though 'mid battle's wild alarm
Love's gentle power might not appear,
He gave to glory's brow the charm
Which made even danger dear.
And then, when victory's calm came o'er
The hearts where rage had ceased to burn,
I heard that farewell voice once more,
"Oh soon return!"
OH, yes!-so well, so tenderly
Thou'rt loved, adored by me,
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
Were worthless without thee.
Though brimmed with blessings pure and rare
Life's cup before me lay,
Unless thy love were mingled there,
I'd spurn the draught away. Love thee?-so well, so tenderly, Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, Are worthless without thee.
Without thy smile, how joylessly
All glory's meeds I see,
And even the wreath of victory
Must owe its bloom to thee.
Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs
For me have now no charms; My only world those radiant eyesMy throne those circling arms! Oh, yes!-so well, so tenderly, Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Whole realms of light and liberty Were worthless without thee.
ONE DEAR SMILE.
COULDST thou look as dear as when
First I sighed for thee;
Couldst thou make me feel again
Every wish I breathed thee then,
Oh how blissful life would be!
Hopes that now beguiling leave me,
Joys that lie in slumber cold--
All would wake, couldst thou but give me
One dear smile like those of old.
Oh there's nothing left us now
But to mourn the past!
Vain was every ardent vow-
Never yet did Heaven allow
Love so warm, so wild, to last.
Not even hope could now deceive me→
Life itself looks dark and cold:
Oh thou never more canst give me
One dear smile like those of old.
THE DAY OF LOVE.
THE beam of morning trembling
Stole o'er the mountain brook,
With timid ray resembling
Affection's early look.
Thus love begins-sweet morn of love!
The noontide ray ascended,
And o'er the valley's stream
Diffused a glow as splendid
As passion's riper dream.
Thus love expands-warm noon of lovel
But evening came, o'ershading
The glories of the sky,
Like faith and fondness fading
From passion's altered eye.
Thus love declines-cold eve of love
THE Song of war shall echo through our mountains, Till not one hateful link remains
Of slavery's lingering chains;
Till not one tyrant tread our plains,
Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains.
No! never till that glorious day
Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
Or hear, O Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding through her sunny mountains.
The song of war shall echo through our mountains,
Till Victory's self shall smiling say,
"Your cloud of foes hath passed away, And Freedom comes with new-born ray,
To gild your vines and light your fountains."
Oh never till that glorious day
Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
Or hear, O Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding through her sunny mountains.
THE young rose which I gave thee, so dewy and bright,
Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night,
Who oft by the moon o'er her blushes hath hung,
And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sung.
Oh, take thou this young rose, and let her life be
Prolonged by the breath she will borrow from thee;
For while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill,
She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.
WHEN MIDST THE GAY I MEET.
WHEN midst the gay I meet
That blessed smile of thine,
Though still on me it turns most sweet,
I scarce can call it mine :
But when to me alone
Your secret tears you show,
O then I feel those tears my own,
And claim them while they flow.
Then still with bright looks bless
The gay, the cold, the free;
Give smiles to those who love you less,
But keep your tears for me.
The snow on Jura's steep
Can smile with many a beam,
Yet still in chains of coldness sleep,
How bright soe'er it seem.
But when some deep-felt ray,
Whose touch is fire, appears,
Oh then, the smile is warmed away,
And, melting, turns to tears.
Then still with bright looks bless
The gay, the cold, the free;
Give smiles to those who love you less,
But keep your tears for me.
WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS.
WHEN twilight dews are falling soft
Upon the rosy sea, love,
I watch the star whose beam so oft
Has lighted me to thee, love.
And thou too, on that orb so dear,
Ah dost thou gaze at even,
And think, though lost for ever here,
Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven?
There's not a garden walk I tread,
There's not a flower I see, love,
But brings to mind some hope that's fled,
Some joy I've lost with thee, love.
And still I wish that hour was near,
When, friends and foes forgiven,
The pains, the ills we've wept through here,
May turn to smiles in heaven.
OH! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.
But between love, and wine, and sleep,
So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then bid me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine
Would be sure to take cold in tears.
Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny, dearest, thy image lies;
But oh, the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimmed too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light
Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beam clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow,
Fanny, dearest-the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.
SIGH NOT THUS.
SIGH not thus, oh simple boy,
Nor for woman languish ;
Loving cannot boast a joy
Worth one hour of anguish.
Moons have faded fast away,
Stars have ceased their shining;
Woman's love, as bright as they,
Feels as quick declining.
Then, love, vanish hence!
Fye, boy, banish hence
Melancholy thoughts of Cupid's lore;
Hours soon fly away,
Charms soon die away;
Then the silly dream of the heart is o'er.
'TIS LOVE THAT MURMURS.
'TIS Love that murmurs in my breast,
And makes me shed the secret tear;
Nor day nor night my heart has rest,
For night and day his voice I hear.
Oh bird of love, with song so drear,
Make not my soul the nest of pain!
Oh let the wing which brought thee here
In pity waft thee hence again!
YOUNG Ella was the happiest maid
That ever hailed the infant spring,
Her carol charmed the blissful shade,
Love taught his favourite nymph to sing.
But ah! that sorrow's preying worm
Should nip the tender buds of peace;
Now wan with woe is Ella's form,
And all her notes of rapture cease.
Alas, poor Ella!
Oh! she was like the silver rose
That drinks the early tears of heaven,
Bright as the dewy star that glows
Upon the blushing brow of even!
How couldst thou, faithless Edmund, leave
A nymph so true, so brightly fair,
In horror's darkling cell to weave
The gloomy cypress of despair?
Alas, poor Ella !
No longer now the hamlet train
Her beauty, life, and sense admire,
Bewildered is her aching brain,
And quenched is all that lively fire.
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