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SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN.
Sung at Rome, on Christmas Eve.
See, the dawn from heaven is breaking o'er our sight,
NETS AND CAGES.
1. 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.
Such florid songs as ours,
Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
Your needle's task you ply;
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
But mark how things went on:
Their name and age, were gone!
So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,
That, though she charm’d into them
Of bars too strong to sever,
And caged him there for ever;
Whate'er their looks or ages,
"Tis wiser to make Cages.
The task your fingers ply.
Ah! not like Cloe sigh!
WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA.
Night breathes her cool air,
I'll come to thee there.
I'll know thee afar,
Some gay gondolier,
“ Our bark, love, is near :
Those clouds o'er the moon, "Twill waft thee safe over
Yon silent Lagoon,"
GO, NOW, AND DREAM.
TAKE HENCE THE BOWL.
Brightly as bowl e'er shone,
Of days, of nights now gone.
As in a wizard's glass,
cup I drain brings hither
Warm hearts, too warm to die !
Of those long vanish'd years,
Seems turning all to tears.
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.
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! think how changed, love, how changed art thou now!
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.
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!
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.