"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee, "In me the great conqueror of con querors see; "Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee, "And mine thou 'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!" The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her, Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she; And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her In pomp to his home, of that highborn Ladye. "But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you led me? "Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; "Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?" With scorn in her glance said the highborn Ladye. ""T is the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures BALLADS, SONGS, ETC. TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS. TO-DAY, dearest ! is ours; Why should Love carelessly lose it? This life shines or lowers Just as we, weak mortals, use it. 'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow; And Joy, if left on the stem to-day, May wither before to-morrow. Then why, dearest ! so long Let the sweet moments fly over? Tho' now, blooming and young, Thou hast me devoutly thy lover; Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse, Some treasure may steal or borrow; Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, Or I less in love to-morrow. When Hope foretells the brightest, best, When all turns round, below, above, HERE, TAKE MY HEART. HERE, take my heart - 't will be safe in thy keeping, While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea; Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping, What need I care, so my heart is with thee? If in the race we are destined to run, love, They who have light hearts the happiest be, Then happier still must be they who have none, love, And that will be my case when mine is with thee. It matters not where I may now be a rover, I care not how many bright eyes I may see; Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her, I'd tell her I could n't-my heart is with thee. And there let it lie, growing fonder and fonder For, even should Fortune turn truant to me, POOR WOUNDED HEART. There- broken heart, farewell! The parting pang is o'er; Like waves, whose strife is past, On death's cold shore thus lying, Thou sleepst in peace at lastPoor broken heart, farewell! THE EAST INDIAN. COME, May, with all thy flowers, Thy sweetly-scented thorn, Thy cooling evening showers, Thy fragrant breath at morn: So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her, Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou; In vain the smiles of all Like sun-beams round her fall: The only smile that could from death awaken her, That smile, alas! is gone to others new. THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE. BEING weary of love, I flew to the grove, And chose me a tree of the fairest; Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree, "Thou my mistress shalt be, "And I'll worship each bud thou bearest. When the beautiful hue Of thy cheek thro' the dew Of morning is bashfully peeping, "Sweet tears," I shall say (As I brush them away), "At least there's no art in this weeping." Altho' thou shouldst die to-morrow, 'T will not be from pain or sorrow; And the thorns of thy stem Are not like them With which men wound each other: SHINE OUT, STARS! SHINE out, Stars! let Heaven assemble And would Love, too, bring his sweet ness, With our other joys to weave, Then would crown this bright May Shine out, Stars! let night assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, To adorn this Eve of May. THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA. OH, the joys of our evening posada, Where, resting at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Sit and sing the sunshine away; Where, resting at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Thus sing the gay moments away. TELL HER, OH, TELL HER. TELL her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying Beneath the green arbor is still lying there; And breezes like lovers around it are sighing, But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer. Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going, Beside the green arbor she playfully set, As lovely as ever is blushing and blowing, And not a bright leaflet has fallen from it yet. So while away from that arbor forsaken, The maiden is wandering, still let her be As true as the lute that no sighing can waken And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree! NIGHTS OF MUSIC. NIGHTS of music, nights of loving, Lost too soon, remembered long. All my spirit felt to thee; |