III.

To the ENTHUSIAST's heart, thy tone
Breathes of the lost and lovely one;

And calls back moments-brief as dear-
When last 'twas wafted on his ear.

IV.

The EXILE listens to the song

Once heard his native bowers among; And, straightway, on his visions rise Home's sunny slopes, and cloudless skies.

V.

The WARRIOR from the strife retired,

By music's stirring strains inspired,
Turns him to deeds of glory done,

To dangers 'scaped-and laurels won.

VI.

Enchantress sweet of smiles and tears,
Spell of the dreams of vanished years,
Mysterious keeper of the key

That opes the gates of Memory!

VII.

'Tis thine to bid sad hearts be gay, Yet chase the smiles of mirth away ;Joy's sparkling eye in tears to steep, Yet bid the mourner cease to weep!

VIII.

To gloom or gladness thou canst suit
The chords of thy delicious lute;
For every heart thou hast a tone,
Can make its pulses all thine own!

II.

TIS EVE ON THE OCEAN.

WELSH MELODY.-AIR, THE ASH GROVE.'

I.

'Tis eve on the ocean,

The breeze is in motion,

And briskly our vessel bounds forth on its way;

The blue sky is o'er us,

The world is before us,

Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up

and be gay!

Why sorrow thus blindly,

For those who unkindly

Could launch, and then leave us on life's troubled sea; Who so heartlessly scanted

The little we wanted,

And denied us the all that we asked-to be free!

But we've 'scaped from their trammels,—the word is

'Away!'

Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up and be gay!

II.

On! On we are speeding,

While, swiftly receding,

The white cliffs of Albion in distance grow blue;
Now that gem of earth's treasures,-

That scene of past pleasures,

The home of our childhood, fades fast from our view.

Yet still thy heart's swelling,

My turtle-eyed Ellen!

What recks it to us that we leave it behind?

Dark ills may betide us,

But Fate cannot guide us

Where foes are more bitter, or friends are less kind

Than we've found them at home;-but the word is

'Away!'

Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up and be gay!

L

III.

Now twilight comes round us,

And dimness hath bound us,

And the light-house looks forth from its surf-beaten height,

Like Hope's gentle beamings,

Through Sorrow's deep dreamings,

Or the lode-star of Memory to hours of delight.
Though, self-exiled, we sever

From England for ever,

We'll make us a home and a country afar;
And we'll build us a bower

Where stern Pride hath no power,

And the rod of Oppression our bliss may not mar. We have broken our chain, and the word is

Then Ellen, my sweet one, look up and be gay!

Away!'