POOR WOUNDED HEART !

1.
Poor wounded heart!
Poor wounded heart, farewell !
Thy hour is come,
Thy liour of rest is come;
Thou soon wilt reach thy home,

Poor wounded heart, farewell !
The pain thou'lt feel in breaking

Less bitter far will be,
Than that long, deadly course of aching,

This lite has been to theel'oor breaking heart, poor breaking heart, farewell !

II.
There--broken heart,
Poor broken heart, farewell !
Tlie pang is o'er-
The parting pang is o’er,
Thon now wilt bleed no more,

Poor broken heart, farewell !
No rest for thee but dying,

Like waves whose strife is past,
On death's cold shore thus early lying,

Thou sleep'st in peace at last-
Poor broken heart, poor broken heart, farewell!

THE EAST INDIAN.

I.
COME May, with all thy flowers,

Thy sweetly-scented thorn,
Thy cooling evening showers,

Thy fragrant breath at morn:
When May-flies haunt the willow,

When May-buds tempt the bee,
Then o'er the shining billow
My love will come to me.

II,
From Eastern Isles she's winging

Through wat’ry wilds her way,
And on her cheek is bringing

The bright sun's orient ray:

Oh! come and court her hither,

Ye breezes mild and warm--
One winter's gale would wither
So soft, so pure a form.

III.
The fields where she was straying

Are blest with endless light,
With zephyrs always playing

Through gardens always bright.
Then now, oh May! be sweeter

Than e'er thou'st been before ;
Let sighs from roses meet her

.When she comes near our shore.

PALE BROKEN FLOWER!

1. PALE broken flower! what art can now recover thee? Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath

In vain the sun-beams seek

To warm that faded cheek ! The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee, Now are bat tears, to weep thy early death!

II.

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 now.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

I.

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,
I'll worship each bud that thou bearest.

For the hearts of this world are hollow,
And fickle the smiles we follow;

And’tis sweet, when all their witcheries pall,

To have a pure love to fly to : So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, And the only one now I shall sigh to.”

II. When the beautiful hue of thy cheek through 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."

Although thou shouldst die to-morrow,

'Twill not be from pain or sorrow, And the thorns of thy stem are not like them

With which hearts wound each other: So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be,

And I'll ne'er again sigh to another.

SHINE OUT, STARS!

I.
SHINE out, Stars! let Heaven assemble

Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,

All to grace this eve of May.
Let the flower-beds all lie waking,

And the odours shut up there,
From their downy prisons breaking,

Fly abroad through sea and air.

II.

And would Love too bring his sweetness,

With our other joys to weave,
Oh, what glory, what completeness,

Then would crown this bright May eve.
Shine out, Stars ! let night assemble

Round us every festal way,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,

To adorn this eve of May.

THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.

I.
Oh! the joys of our evening posada,

Wken, resting at close of the day,

We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

Sit and sing the last sunshine away!
So blithe, that even the slumbers

Which hung around us seem gone,
Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers
Again beguile them on.

II,
Then, as each to his favourite sultana

In sleep is still breathing the sigh,
The name of some black-eyed Tirana

Half breaks from our lips as we lie.
Then, with morning's rosy twinkle,

Again we're up and gone-
While the mule-bells drowsy tinkle

Beguiles the rough way on.

TELL HER, OH TELL HER.

I.
Tell her, oh tell her, the lute she left lying

Beneath the green arbour, is still lying there;
Breezes, like lovers, around it are sighing,
But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

II.
Tell her, oh tell her, the tree that, in going,

Beside the green arbour she playfully set,
Lovely as ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

III.
So while away from that arbour forsaken,

The maiden is wandering, oh! let her be
True as the lute that no sighing can waken,

And blooming for ever unchanged as the tree !

NIGHTS OF MUSIC.

I.
Nights of music, nights of loving,

Lost too soon, remember'd long,
When we went by moon-light roving,

Hearts all love and lips all song.

When this faithful lute recorded

All my spirit felt to thee,
And that smile the song rewarded,
Worth whole years of fame to me!

II.
Nights of song, and nights of splendour,

Fillid with joys too sweet to last-
Joys that, like your star-light tender,

While they shone, no shadow cast : Though all other happy hours

From my fading memory fly, Of that star-light, of those bowers,

Not a beam, a leaf, shall die!

a

OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE.

I.
Our first young love resembles

That short but brilliant ray,
Which smiles, and weeps, and trembles

Through April's earliest day.
No, no-all life before us,

Howe'er its lights may play,
Can shed no lustre o'er us
Like that first April ray.

II.
Our summer sun may squander

A blaze serener, grander,
Our autumn beam may, like a dream

Of heaven, die calm away :
But no-let life before us

Bring all the light it may, "Twill shed no lustre o'er us

Like that first trembling ray.

THE END.

로

Hm