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SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN.

Sung at Rome, on Christmas Eve.

I.

See, the dawn from heaven is breaking o'er our sight,
And Earth, from sin awaking, hails the sight!
See, those groups of Angels, winging from the realms above,
On their sunny brows from Eden bringing wreaths of Hope
and Love.

II.
Hark—their hymns of glory pealing through the air,
To mortal ears revealing who lies there!
In that dwelling, dark and lowly, sleeps the heavenly Son,
He, whose home is in the skies,-the Holy One!

R

NATIONAL AIRS.

No. IV.

NETS AND CAGES.

Swedish Air.

I.

COME, listen to my story, while

Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing some maids will smile,

While some, perhaps, may sigh.
Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames

Such florid songs as ours,
Yet Truth sometimes, like eastern dames,

Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
Then listen, maids, come listen, while

Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing there's some may smile,
While some, perhaps, will sigh.

II.

Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,

Such nets had learn’d to frame, That none, in all our vales and groves,

Ere caught so much small game : While gentle Sue, less given to roam,

When Cloe's nets were taking These flights of birds, sat still at home, One small, neat Love-cage making. Come, listen, maids, etc.

III.

Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task;

But mark how things went on: These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask

Their name and age, were gone!

So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,

That, though she charm'd into them New game each hour, the youngest Love Was able to break through them.

Come, listen, maids, etc.

IV.

Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought

Of bars too strong to sever,
One Love with golden pinions caught,

And caged him there for ever;
Instructing thereby, all coquettes,

Whate'er their looks or ages,
That, though 'tis pleasant weaving Nets,

"Tis wiser to make Cages.
Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile

The task your fingers ply. May all who hear, like Susan smile,

Ah! not like Cloe sigh!

WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA.

Venetian Air.

I.
WHEN through the Piazzetta

Night breathes her cool air,
Then, dearest Ninetta,

I'll come to thee there.
Beneath thy mask shrouded,

I'll know thee afar,
As Love knows, though clouded,

His own Evening Star.

II.

In garb, then, resembling

Some gay gondolier,
I'll whisper thee, trembling,

c. Our bark, love, is near :
Now, now, while there hover

Those clouds o'er the moon, 'Twill waft thee safe over

Yon silent Lagoon.”

GO, NOW, AND DREAM.

Sicilian Air.

1. Go, now, and dream o'er that joy in thy slumberMoments so sweet again ne'er shalt thou number. Of Pain's bitter draught the flavour never flies, While Pleasure's scarce touches the lip ere it dies !

II. That moon, which hung o'er your parting, so splendid, Often will shine again, bright as she then did — But, ahl never more will the beam she saw burn In those happy eyes at your meeting return.

TAKE HENCE THE BOWL.
Neapolitan Air.

I.
Take hence the bowl; though beaming

Brightly as bowl e'er shone,
Oh! it but sets me dreaming

Of days, of nights now gone.
There, in its clear reflection,

As in a wizard's glass,
Lost hopes and dead affection,
Like shades, before me pass.

II.
Each cup I drain brings hither

Some friend who once sat by~
Bright lips, too bright to wither,

Warm hearts, too warm to die!
Till, as the dream comes over me

Of those long vanish'd years,
Then, then the cup before me

Seems turning all to tears.

FAREWELL, THERESA!

Venetian dir.

I.
FAREWELL, Theresa! that cloud which over

Yon moon this moment gath'ring we see,

Shall scarce from her pure orb have pass'd, ere thy lover

Swift o'er the wide wave shall wander from thee.

II.

Long, like that dim cloud, I've hang around thee,

Dark’ning thy prospects, sadd’ning thy brow;
With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee;
Oh I think how changed, love, how changed art thou now!

III.
But here I free thee: like one awaking

From fearful slumber, this dream thou'lt tell;
The bright moon her spell too is breaking,

Past are the dark clouds ; Theresa, farewell !

HOW OFT WHEN WATCHING STARS.

Savoyard Air,

I.

How oft, when watching stars grow pale,

And round me sleeps the moonlight scene, To hear a flute through yonder vale

I from my casement lean. “Oh! come, my love !" each note it utters seems to say; “Oh! come, my love! the night wears fast away!” No, ne'er to mortal ear

Can words, though warm they be, Speak Passion's language half so clear

As do those notes to me!

II.

Then quick my own light lute I seek,

And strike the chords with loudest swell; And, though they nought to others speak,

He knows their language well. “I come, my love !" each sound they utter seems to say; "I come, my love! thine, thine till break of day.” Oh! weak the power of words,

The hues of painting dim, Compared to what those simple chords

Then say and paint to him.

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