The love that seeks a home
Where wealth or grandeur shines,
Is like the gloomy gnome,
That dwells in dark gold mines.
But, oh! the poet's love
Can boast a brighter sphere;
Its native home's above,
Though woman keeps it here!
Then drink to her who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy!
[Music by H. BRINLEY RICHARDS.
OH! ask me not with thee to dwell,
Within the city's crowded space,
My braided hair and sunburnt brow
Were all unfit for such a place.
I am not fair, like those who meet
To mix in faslon's giddy whirl;
There I should sigh for fresh green fields,
And you'd forget your gipsy girl,
Forget the wandering gipsy!
I covet not your splendid halls,
Where glittering gems with gems outvie;
Give me my home where freedom dwells,
My tent beneath the open sky;
Some other soon will share thy heart,
With fairer brow and waving curl,
My race may mate not with thine own,
Then leave the wandering gipsy girl-
Forget the wandering gipsy!
But if upon some future day
Perchance within the town I'm seen,
Thou shalt not see me sad as now,
I'll bring my merry tambourine.
Then give to me a passing thought,
As in the giddy dance I twirl,
And deem not all your city's wealth
Could tempt the wandering gipsy girl!
Could tempt the wandering gipsy!
SWIFTER THAN THE SWALLOW'S
SWIFTER than the swallow's flight
Homeward through the twilight free,
Fleeter than the morning light
Flashing o'er the pathless sea,
Dearest, in the lonely night,
Mem'ry wings her way to thee.
Stronger far than is desire,
Firm as truth itself can be,
Deeper than earth's central fire,
Boundless as eternity,
Mute as sorrow's unstrung lyre,
Is my love, dear one, for thee.
Sweeter than the miser's gain,
Or the note of fame can be,
Unto one who long in vain
Has trod the path of chivalry;
Are my dreams in which, again,
My fond arms encircle thee.
FIVE MONTHS AGO THE STREAM
FIVE months ago the stream did flow,
The lilies bloomed within the sedge,
And we were lingering to and fro,
Where none will track thee in thesnow-
Along the stream beside the hedge.
Ah, sweet! be free to love and go,
For if I do not hear thy foot,
The frozen river is as mute:
The flow'rs have dried down to the root,
And why, since these be changed since May
Shouldst thou change less than they?
And slow, slow as the winter snow,
The tears have drifted to mine eyes;
And my poor cheeks five months ago,
Set blushing at thy praises so-
Put paleness on-for a disguise.
Ah, weet! be free to praise and go,
For if my face is turned to pale,
It was thine oath that first did fail;
It was thy love prov'd false and frail.
And why, since these be changed now,
Should I change less than thou?
SEE yon lark in ether floating,
Wafting forth his native lays;
Each melodious bar denoting
'Tis an earnest song of praise!
View him upward, onward drifting,
T'wards the realms where angels throng,
Music's very soul seems lifting,
With that joyous bird of song!
Hark! the envoy seems revealing
Nature's grateful mission now;
Or what else those sweet notes stealing
On the ear entranced below!
Like a seraph's voice it soundeth,
Borne on zephyr's wings along;
Stol'n from realms where joy aboundeth,
By yon culprit thing of song!
Now the truant's homeward flinging,
Laden with love's notes he flies;
As it were a cherub bringing
Some sweet message from the skies!
Happy warbler, thus to revel,
Up so near the heavenly throng!
Happier still, no more to travel
Back, like yonder bird of song!
THE Rhine is gently flowing,
The night is calm and still,
And purple grapes are glowing
On ev'ry vine-clad hill;
And yonder in the moonlight,
That stately form behold!
With sword and mantle
Of purple and of gold!
"Tis Karl, the brave, the fearless,
Once ruler of this land,
Who sway'd, with wisdom peerless,
The sceptre of command.
And now, as legends tell us,
At night he leaves his tomb,
To bless the purple clusters,
And breathe their rich perfume;
But ere the dawn of morning,
The figure glides away,
And sinks again to slumber
In his marble tomb at Aix.
In mem'ry of our hero,
In honour of our vine,
Let's drink to Karl the Kaiser,
cup of Rhenish wine.
BRIGHTLY, brightly hast thou fled,
Ere one grief had bow'd thy head,
Brightly didst thou part!
With thy young thoughts pure from spot,
With thy fond love wasted not,
With thy bounding heart.
Ne'er by sorrow to be wet,
Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet,
Ere with dust o'erspread :
Lilies ne'er by tempest blown,
White rose which no stain hath known,
Be about thee shed!
So we give thee to the earth,
And the primrose shall have birth
O'er thy gentle head;
Thou, that like a dewdrop borne
On a sudden breeze of morn,
Brightly thou hast fled !
THERE'S an old farm-house at the foot of the hill,
That was built in the days of yore,
With its quaint red barn, and rickety mill,
And a vine-covered porch by the door;
There's a crumbling wall, where the ivy doth cling,
And an oak that looks noble and great,
As though he were proud of the children who swing,
'Neath his boughs on the old farm gate,
For there merry hearts are with joy elate,
As they ride to and fro on the old farm gate.
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