I thought you would not know it,
Alas! 'tis faded now!
No longer fit to flutter
Upon a bridal brow;
Yet once a year I'll wear it,
If triflers scorn its hue;
I'll tell them I'm as happy
As when this knot was new.
FAR away!-my home is far away,
Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore;
In the woods I hear my brothers play,
'Midst the flowers my sister sings once more.
Far away!
Far away! my dreams are far away,
When at midnight, stars and shadows reign; "Gentle child," my mother seems to say, "Follow me where home shall smile again!" Far away!
Far away! my hope is far away,
Where love's voice young gladness may restore! Oh! thou dove! now soaring through the day, Lend me wings to reach that better shore;
A DREAM OF DEATH AT SEA.
[EDWARD QUILLINAN.]
UNDER the gannet's pillow
Twenty fathoms deep,
Under the dull green billow
Of Finisterre I sleep.
Be kind to my two young daughters
For the sake of him who sends
His voice from beneath the waters
To all who were his friends.
By Grasmere's lake their mother
Rests among the dead;
Their father has found another
And a wilder bed.
Be the ban of a father's spirit
On those who would do them wrong!
And a blessing may they inherit
Who are kind to his orphan young!
THE sky above is blue-serene,
The breeze a perfume bears,
While nature decks the lovely scene,
Her sweetest smiles she wears;
Then why but ill-content am I,
While o'er that scene I roam,
I feel that valley wants the charm
The magic name of home.
Then blow, ye breezes, waft me o'er
The ever-moving sea,
Tho' scenes like these I see no more,
Tho' rude my homestead be ;
Still waft me forward, quickly bear,
Oh! bear me o'er the foam,
And let me once again enjoy,
The sight of cherish'd home.
The wand'rer o'er the globe may find
A pleasure thus to range,
And half beguile the cares that wait
On travel or on change;
Weep no more! The fiercest pains
Were love, were pride:
Weep no more! The world's strong chains
Are cast aside.
And all the war of life must cease,
In peace,-in peace!
SWEET is the sound of rippling streams,
And sweet is music o'er the sea;
Sweet were our childhood's happy dreams,
As summer flowerets to the bee.
"Tis sweet an absent friend to meet,
Whose heart still fondly clings to thee;
But sweeter still thy form to greet,
So dear, so dear thou art to me.
So dear art thou to me, my love,
So dear art thou to me!
Sweet is the balmy time of spring,
And sweet the bloom of summer bow'rs;
Sweet are the autumn winds, that fling
Abroad the perfumed breath of flow'rs.
But sweeter far than autumn winds,
Or all the summer flow'rs can be;
Thy smile so bright, thy voice so kind,
So dear, so dear art thou to me.
So dear art thou to me, my love,
So dear art thou to me!
{Music by LANGTON
WILLIAMS.
AMID the glad throng here to-night,
There is one form reminding of thee,
Sweet vision, how welcome and bright,
Are the memories it brings back to me!
Away, accursed treasure,
That did shine but to burn;
Dear childhood with thy pleasure
Of faith and hope return.
Is all my grief in vain, love?
And wilt not thou reply?
Oh, look on me again, love,
And live, or let me die!
[Music by W. L. PHILLIPS.
THE cold north winds are blowing,
The tall reeds moan and sigh,
The torrents, madly flowing,
Like frightened steeds rush by;
But thy voice is kind and tender,
And thy smiles a warmth impart,
And thine eyes a sunlight render,
So 'tis summer in the heart.
The snow around is falling
Upon the silent ground,
The herdsman leaves his calling,
The flocks in fold are bound;
The birds no longer fear me,
Nor seek a home apart,
And my sweet bird is near me,
So-'tis summer in the heart.
The trees like cowards tremble
Throughout the dreary night,
As, snow-clad, they resemble
The ghosts all clothed in white:
To us this wintry weather
No sorrow can impart ;
While thus we cling together,
Still-'tis summer in the heart.
Oh, memory of the past!
Why linger to forget her;
My first love was my last,
And that was Margaretta.
I LOVED THE MAID FOR LOVING ME.
I DID not love her for her face,
I did not love her for her grace;
Though all must own that she is fair,
And wears a most bewitching air.
I did not love her for her form,
Though she a stoic's heart might warm.
Ah, no, if told the truth must be-
I loved the maid for loving me.
'Twas not her wit inspired my love,
Though all who hear her must approve;
'Twas not her virtues all so rare,
For she is good as she is fair.
'Twas neither beauty, wit, nor birth
(Though charms, I own, of magic worth);
Oh, no, if told the truth must be--
I loved the maid for loving me!
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