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Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers

Ah, how could she, who stole

Such breath from simple wire,
Be led, in pride of soul,

To string with gold her lyre?
Sweet lutel thy chords she breaketh,
Golden now the strings she waketh!

But where are all the tales

Her lute so sweetly told ?
In lofty themes she fails,

And soft ones suit not gold.
Rich lute! we see thee glisten,
But, alas! no more we listen!


THE song that lightens our languid way

When brows are glowing,

And faint with rowing,
Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,

As we row along through waves so clear, Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile

That shines o'er Sorrow's tear.

Nothing is lost on him who sees

With an eye that Feeling gave;
For him there's a story in every breeze,

And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way ;-

When brows are glowing,

And faint with rowing: 'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound through life we stray.

Ou think, when a hero is sighing,

What danger in such an adorer! What woman could dream of denying

The hand that lays laurels before her. No heart is so guarded around,

But the smile of a victor would take it ; No bosom can slumber so sound,

But the trumpet of Glory will wake it.

Love sometimes is given to sleeping,

And woe to the heart that allows him ; For soon neither smiling or weeping

Will e'er from such slumber arouse him. But though he were sleeping so fast,

That the life almost seem'd to forsake him, Ev'n then, one soul-thrilling blast

From the trumpet of Glory would wake him.


A LOTERY, a Lottery,
In Cupid's Court there used to be;

Two roguish eyes

The highest prize,
In Cupid's scheming Lottery;

And kisses, too,

As good as new, Which were n't


hard to win,
For he, who won

of fun,
Was sure to have the kisses in.

A Lottery, a Lottery, eto.

This Lottery, this Lottery,
In Cupid's Court went merrily,

And Cupid play'd

A Jewish trade
In this his scheming Lottery;

For hearts, we're told,

In shares he sold
To many a fond believing drone,

And cut the hearts

So well in parts, That each believ'd the whole his own.

Chor.- A Lottery, a Lottery,

In Cupid's Court there used to be ;

Two roguish eyes

The highest prize
In Cupid's scheming Lottery.


Though sacred the tie that our country entwineth,

And dear to the heart her remembrance remains, Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,

And sad the remembrance that slavery stains. Oh Liberty, born in the cot of the peasant,

But dying of languor in luxury's dome, Our vision, when absent our glory when present

Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

Farewell to the land where in childhood I wander'd!

In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave; Unbless'd is the blood that for tyrants is squander'd,

And Fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave. But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion

Of Europe, as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam ; With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the

ocean, Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

• Sung in the character of a Frenchman. VOL. v.


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