So thou, where thousands are, Dost shine the only star! No, no, no, no, no! 'Mong them all there is nothing like thee; No, no, no, no! There is nothing like thee 'mong them all. KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE. German Air. KEEP those eyes still purely mine, When they must for others shine, Should those lips, as now, respond, When their accents seem most fond, Make what hearts thou wilt thy own, Fix their charmed thoughts alone, No. VI. HOPE COMES AGAIN. Old English Air. HOPE comes again-to this heart long a stranger; Once more she sings me her flattering strain: But hush! gentle syren, for ah! there 's less danger In still suff'ring on, than in hoping again. Long, long in sorrow too deep for repining, Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain; And joy, coming now like a sudden light shining O'er eyelids long darken'd, would bring me but pain. Fly, then, ye visions that hope would shed o'er me: I WOULD TELL HER I LOVE HER. Italian Air. I WOULD tell her I love her, Did I know but the way; What a lover should say,- What a lover should say. Yet, when once I'm before her, All my eloquence flies. Oh, ye gods! did ye ever Such a simpleton know? I'm in love, and yet never Have the heart to say so, No, no, ne'er have the heart to say soNo, no, ne'er have the heart to say so. Having pluck'd up a spirit, Till to-morrow's daylight. Such a simpleton know? Have the heart to say so No, no, ne'er have the heart to say soNo, no, ne'er have the heart to say so. OH SAY, THOU BEST AND BRIGHTEST. Spanish Air. Oн say, thou best and brightest, My first love and my last, When he, whom now thou slightest, From life's dark scene hath past, Will kinder thoughts then move thee? For him who lived to love thee, If, when that hour recalling From which he dates his woes, Thou feel'st a tear-drop falling, Ah! blush not while it flows: But, all the past forgiving, Bend gently o'er his shrine, And say, this heart, when living, With all its faults, was mine!»> WHEN NIGHT BRINGS THE HOUR. Florentine Air. WHEN night brings the hour Of star-light and joy, There comes to my bow'r A fairy-wing'd boy; With eyes so bright, So full of wild arts, To tangle young hearts; Name but his name, And his best kiss, For reward, you may claim. Where'er o'er the ground He prints his light feet, The flowers there are found Most shining and sweet. His looks, as soft As lightning in May, Sacred Songs. TO THE REV. THOMAS PARKINSON, D. D. ARCHDEACON OF LEICESTER, CHANCELLOR OF CHESTER, AND RECTOR OF REGWORTH, This Number of “Sacred Songs," is Inscribed, Take away her Lattlements; for they are not the Lord's."-Jer. v, 10. Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, but the Valley of Slaughter, for they shall bury in Tophet till there be no place. Jer. vii, 32, 3 These lines were suggested by a passage in St Jerome's reply to some calumnious remarks that had been circulated upon his intimacy with the matron Paula: - Numquid me vestes serica, nitentes gemma, picta facies, aut auri rapuit ambitio? Nulla fuit alia Romæ matronarum, quæ meam possit edomare mentem, nisi lugens atque jejunans, fletu pene cæcata.-Epist. Si tibi putem,» 4 ου γαρ χρυσοφορεί την δακρύουσαν δει.-Chyrost. Homil. 8. in Epist. ad Tim. The carrier-pigeon, it is well-known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined. But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way. So grant me, God! from every care To hold my course to Thee! My Soul, as home she springs:Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings! OH! THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."— Paulm. cxlvii, 3. On! Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear, If, when deceived and wounded here, Must weep those tears alone. But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe. When joy no longer soothes or cheers, A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom, Did not thy wing of love Come, brightly wafting through the gloom Our peace-branch from above? Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright As darkness shows us worlds of light WEEP NOT FOR THOSE. WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb, To water that Eden where first was its source! Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. |