Yet those eyes look constant still, But there, alas! he dies. Lovely still, but dear no more; Once his soul of truth is gone, Love's sweet life is o'er. DOST THOU REMEMBER? DOST thou remember that place so lonely, Where first I told thee all my secret sighs? When as the moon-beam, that trembled o'er thee, Illumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee, And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes! Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart, Love bound us-never, never more to part! And when I call'd thee by names the dearest That love could fancy, the fondest, nearestMy life, my only life!» among the rest; In those sweet accents that still inthral me, Thou saidst, « Ah! wherefore thy life thus call me? Thy soul, thy soul's the name that I love best; For life soon passes, but how blest to be That soul which never, never parts from thee!» OH! COME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT SETS. Venetian Air. On! come to me when daylight sets; Sweet! then come to me, O'er the moonlight sea. When Mirth's awake, and Love begins, With sound of lutes and mandolins, To steal young hearts away. When smoothly go our gondolets Oh! then's the hour for those who love, When all 's so calm below, above, In heaven and o'er the sea. So sweet, that all with ears and souls So, come to me when daylight sets; When smoothly go our gondolets The thought in this verse is borrowed from the original Portuguese words. 2 Barcarolles, sorte de chansons en langue Vénitienne, que chanteni les gondoliers à Venise. -Roussɛst, Dictionnaire de Musique. 321 PEACE be around thee, wherever thou rovest; And all that thou wishest, and all that thou lovest. Come smiling around thy sunny way! If sorrow e'er this calm should break, May Time, who sheds his blight o'er all, They shall not crush one flower beneath! As half in shade and half in sun, This world along its path advances, May that side the sun's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances! COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS. WHILE I touch the string, Wreathe my brows with laurel, For the tale I sing, Has, for once, a moral. Common Sense, one night, With Genius on his rambles. While I touch the string, etc. Many wise things saying, While the light that shone Soon set Genius straying. One his eye ne'er raised From the path before him, On each night-cloud o'er him. So they came, at last, Safe, as he doth ever; But tumbled headlong in it! While I touch the string, etc. How the wise one smiled, Genius, left to shiver On the bank, 't is said, Died of that cold river! While I touch the string, etc. THEN, FARE THEE WELL! Old English Air. THEN, fare thee well! my own dear love, This world has now for us No greater grief, no pain above The pain of parting thus, dear love! the pain of parting thus! Had we but known, since first we met, Some few short hours of bliss, We might, in numbering them, forget The deep, deep pain of this, dear love! the deep, deep pain of this! But, no, alas! we 've never seen One glimpse of pleasure's ray, But still there came some cloud between, And chased it all away, dear love! and chased it all away! Yet, e'en could those sad moments last, Far dearer to my heart Were hours of grief, together past, Than years of mirth apart, dear love! than years of mirth apart! Farewell! our hope was born in fears, And nursed 'mid vain regrets! Like winter suns, it rose in tears, Like them in tears it sets, dear love! like them in tears it sets! O'erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair, A fountain ran darkly beneath COME, CHASE THAT STARTING TEAR AWAY. 'T was Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there ; French Air. COME, chase that starting tear away, Ere mine to meet it springs; To-night, at least, to-night be gay, Whate'er to-morrow brings! Like sun-set gleams, that linger late Are hours like these we snatch from Fate- Then, chase that starting tear, etc. To gild our dark'ning life, if Heaven Oh! think that one bright hour is given, Love knew it, and jump'd at the wreath. But Love did n't know-and at his weak years What urchin was likely to know? That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears That fountain which murmur'd below. He caught at the wreath-but with too much haste, And the flowers were all wet through. Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day, And, though it all sunny appears With Pleasure's own lustre, each leaf, they say, Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears. |