Oh, I shall be happy with Donald,
And he will be happy with me.
Happy, ever so happy,
Our lowland home will be.
If the moon shines bright,
And mark upon her border;
Some deeds to be done
To Phoebus the sun,
In trim and comely order.
First that appear,
Are the priests of the year,
With their censors full of wine;
Then Cynthia bright,
In all her light,
The goddess most divine!
And as they pass,
They drink and sing,
All health and praise
To Apollo our king.
ONE by one the sands are flowing,
One by one the moments fall;
Some are coming, some are going,
Do not strive to grasp them all.
One by one thy duties wait thee,
Let thy whole strength go to each,
Let no future dreams elate thee,
Learn thou first what these can teach.
One by one (bright gifts from heaven)
Joys are sent thee here below;
Take them readily when given,
Ready, too, to let them go.
One by one thy griefs shall meet thee,
Do not fear an armed band;
One will fade as others greet thee;
Passing shadows through the land.
Do not look at life's long sorrow,
See how small each moment's pain;
God will help thee for to-morrow,
So each day begin again.
THE OLD MAN'S DREAM OF HOME.
[Music by F. WALLERSTIEN.
IT was not of his native skies,
Though they were bright and blue,
It was not of the starry eyes
That he in childhood knew ;
The sunny path-the shady trees,
Where oft he used to roam,
It wander'd back to none of these,-
That old man's dream of home.
It was not of his early friends,
He dreamt not- where are they?
The charm to life that friendship lends
For him had passed away ;-
It showed to him that sunny strand
That only angels roam,
It bore him to the spirit-land,-
That old man's dream of home.
LET them hover-round her,
Let them seek her side,
Faithful I have found her,
Tender, true, and tried;
So no anxious feeling
Stirs my heart again,
Never doubts revealing
Darkest depths of pain.
Careless she of any
Flutterers in the sun;
Smile she may on many,
Yet she will love but one.
Let them in the dances
Clasp her promised hand;
I feel her loving glances,
They reach me where I stand.
In her ears their voices
Whisper courtly praise,
But I know her heart rejoices
Only in my praise.
Careless she of any
Flutterers in the sun,
Smile she may on many,
Yet she will love but one.
AMPHION'S lute and Orpheus' lyre
Pleased amateurs of yore,
Our amateurs' loud harps inspire,
And those we heard no more.
Harps that assist each female charm,
The snowy hand, and rounded arm,
That turn with more than mortal grace;
The stately neck, and lovely face,
As rapidly the fingers trace
Each natural, flat, and sharp;
But, most the senses to ensnare,
Give me the soft celestial strain
That gently floats upon the air,
That all can feel, but none explain,
In sounds the ear so smoothly greet,
From the seraphic, self-play'd, sweet
Eolian harp.
The love-sick maid her anxious pain
Vents from yon tow'r above,
And to the harp pours forth the strain
Sacred to night and love.
Now, while the lover scales the gates,
Disdaining watch-dogs or spring-guns,
The hour of assignation waits,
And into every danger runs :
Nor father, brother, husband shuns,
Their weapons e'er so sharp;
The open'd window lulls his fears,
While, softly riding on the breeze,
The well-known signal to his ears
Is gently wafted through the trees: Sounds the charm'd ear so smoothly greet, From the seraphic, self-play'd, sweet Æolian harp.
Each belle, thus holding in disdain
Apollo and his lyre,
Thumps, as she harps on the same strain,
The catgut and the wire :
The Irish harp, Scotch harp, Welsh harp,
The mania nought can stop;
The chords they ransack, strain, and warp,
Range from the bottom to the top,
And shift, and turn, and change, and chop Each natural, flat, and sharp.
Yet nought the senses can ensnare
Like the dear soft celestial strain
That gently floats upon the air,
That all can feel but none explain,
In sounds the ear so smoothly greet,
From the seraphic, self-play'd, sweet
Eolian harp.
He was then so innocent,
And not, as now, on mischief bent,
Free he came, and harmless went,
Heigho! heigho!
Love is now a little man,
Heigho! heigho!
And a very saucy one,
Heigho! heigho!
He walks so stiff, and looks so smart,
As if he owned each maiden's heart.
I wish he felt his own keen dart,
Heigho! heigho!
Love will soon be growing old,
Heigho! heigho!
Half his life's already told,
Heigho! heighɔ!
When he's dead, and buried too,
What shall we poor maidens do?
I'm sure I cannot tell-can you?
Heigho! heigho!
|