Her children slumber calmly,
Who orphans soon shall be ;
One son alone is absent,
Oh, pray for those at sea!
The wild north wind is wailing
O'er the drear and darkened land,
The waves are madly foaming,
As they roll towards the strand;
In the crash and roar of tempests,
What helpless men may be !
Oh, kneel, for heaven is angry,
And pray for those at sea.
[Music by HoN. MRS. NORTON.
I DREAMT, 'twas but a dream, thou wert my bride, love!
I dreamt that we were wandering side by side, love!
I earth's happiest son-and thou her loveliest daughter,
While fairy bells came tinkling o'er the water,
Merrily, merrily it fell,
The echo of that fairy bell.
That vision pass'd away, and thou hast left me
To mourn the hopes thy falsehood hath bereft me;
No more I claim thy promised hand,
No more in dreams I see thee stand,
While soft, sweet and low it fell,
The echo of that fairy bell.
Now when I'm musing, sad and lonely,
With but my harp and my remembrance only,
In vain as o'er those chords I bend,
One joyful note I try to send,
For sad, sad and changed they seem,
The fairy bells of that dear dream.
FLY FROM THE WORLD, O BESSY. T. MOORE.]
FLY from the world, O Bessy! to me;
Thou wilt never find any sincerer ;
I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee:
I can never meet any that's dearer !
They tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh,
That our loves will be censur'd by many;
All, all have their follies, and who will deny
That ours is the sweetest of any?
When your lip has met mine in abandonment
sweet,
Have we felt as if virtue forbid it?
Have we felt as if heaven denied them to meet?
No! rather 'twas heaven that did it!
So innocent, love, is the pleasure we sip,
So little of guilt is there in it!
That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip,
And I'd kiss them away in a minute.
Then come to your lover, oh! fly to his shed,
From a world which I know thou despisest;
And slumber will hover as light on our bed,
As e'er on the couch of the wisest !
And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven,
And thou, pretty innocent, fearest,
I'll tell thee "It is not the chiding of heaven,
'Tis only our lullaby, dearest !"
And, oh when we lie on our death-bed, my love,
Looking back on the scene of our errors,
A sigh from my Bessy shall plead them above,
And death be disarmed of his terrors !
And each to the other embracing will say,
"Farewell! let us hope we're forgiv'n!"
Thy last fading glance shall illumine the way,
And a kiss be our passport to heaven!
THE GIPSY'S LAUGHING SONG.
WHAT a merry life we gipsies lead,
Who rove 'neath the greenwood tree,
No care we know, no law we heed,
But wander gay and free.
By the sloping wood where the wild deer bound,
Are the tents of the wandering gipsy found;
By the sparkling fire we'll gaily quaff,
The song we'll troll, and merrily, inerrily laugh.
We'll laugh ha, ha, ha!
I am your king, ye joyous band,
Then raise for me each voice and hand,
May many a night like this be spent,
With the gipsy band in the gipsies' tent!
Then by the sparkling fire, &c.
I HAVE LEFT MY QUIET HOME.
[Music by HoN. MRS. NORTON.
I HAVE left my quiet home
With thee through the world to roam,
All was not so dear as thou,
Do not frown upon me now.
Far away my mother keeps
Vigil in her lonely cot,
And gazing from the lattice, weeps
To think upon my wandering lot.
Tell me not I am to blame,
That I am no more the same;
Changed in form I well may be,
But I never changed to thee!
True, my rosy bloom is past,
Worn with many a sense of ill,
And my cheek is fading fast,
But my heart is faithful still.
[Music by J. P. KNIGHT, You deem me cold and heartless,
You think I cannot feel,
Because with smiles I greet you,
And graver though's conceal;
But though I seem so happy,
And bask in pleasure's beam,
Ask those who know me better ;-
I am not what I seem.
'Tis not the gayest features
That marks the brightest lot;
The one you deem so happy
Has loved-and been forgot.
When no gay friends are near me
To praise my harp's sweet tone,
The eye you see so beaming
Oft weeps, and weeps alone;
'Tis pride that strives to conquer
That futile, idle dream;
'Tis scorn that makes me careless ;-
I am not what I seem.
I only strive to banish
The past-but I cannot ;
The one you deem so happy
Has loved-and been forgot.
THE BUTTERFLY WAS A GENTLE
THE butterfly was a gentleman,
Of no very good repute;
And he roved in the sunshine all day long
In his scarlet and purple suit;
And he left his lady-wife at home
In her own secluded bower,
Whilst he, like a bachelor, flirted about
With a kiss for every flower.
His lady-wife was a poor glow-worm,
And seldom from home she'd stir;
She loved him better than all the world,
Though little he cared for her.
Unheeded she passed the day--she knew
Her lord was a rover then ;
But, when night came on, she lighted her lamp
To guide him over the glen.
One night the wanderer homeward came,
But he saw not the glow-worm's ray;
Some wild bird saw the neglected one,
And flew with her far away;
Then beware, ye butterflies all, beware,
If to you such a time should come;
Forsaken by wandering lights, you'll wish
You had cherished the lamp at home.
GIVE ME A FACE THAT MAKES
SIMPLICITY A GRACE.
[BEN JONSON.]
STILL to be neat, still to be dressed
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed,
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet-all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free,
Such sweet neglect more pleaseth me
Than all the adulteries of art,-
They strike my eye, but not my heart.
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