And should the foes of virtue dare O fair! O purest! be like the dove. YOUNG Love lived once in an humble shed, And woodbines wreathing Around the lattice their tendrils spread, For young Hope nourished The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, though blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers. Alas! that Poverty's evil eye Should e'er come hither, Such sweets to wither! The flowers laid down their heads to die, Ere Love had warning, And raised the latch, where the young god lay; "Oh ho!" said Love-"is it you? good-by;" So he oped the window, and flew away! To sigh, yet feel no pain, To weep, yet scarce know why; To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none; To think all other charms divine, To keep one sacred flame, Through life unchilled, unmoved, To such refined excess That though the heart would break with more, We could not live with less; This is love, faithful love, Such as saints might feel above. SPIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies In youthful hearts that hope like mine; They are not those to sorrow known; The tinge of pleasure as they flow. The child who sees the dew of night Upon the spangled hedge at morn Attempts to catch the drops of light, But wounds his finger with the thorn. Thus oft the brightest joys we seek Are lost, when touched, and turned to pain; The flush they kindle leaves the cheek, The tears they waken long remain. But give me, give me, &c., &c. WHEN Leila touched the lute, Ah how could she who stole Such breath from simple wire Be led, in pride of soul, To string with gold her lyre? Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh; But where are all the tales And soft ones suit not gold. BOAT GLEE. THE song that lightens the languid way And faint with rowing, Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, Nothing is lost on him who sees And faint with rowing, 'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, To whose sound through life we stray. OH think, when a hero is sighing, 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 oh neither smiling nor weeping Has power at those moments to rouse him. But though he was sleeping so fast That the life almost seemed to forsake him, Even then, one soul-thrilling blast From the trumpet of glory would wake him. CUPID'S LOTTERY. A LOTTERY, a Lottery, In Cupid's court there used to be; In Cupid's scheming Lottery; As good as new, Which weren't very hard to win, For he who won The eyes of fun Was sure to have the kisses in. A Lottery, a Lottery, &c. This Lottery, this Lottery, In Cupid's court went merrily, A Jewish trade In this his scheming Lottery; In shares he sold To many a fond believing drone, And cut the hearts In sixteen parts, So well each thought the whole his own. SONG. THOUGH sacred the tie that our country entwineth, Our vision, when absent-our glory, when present- WHEN Charles was deceived by the maid he loved, But proudly he smiled, as if gay and unmoved, Though the wound in his heart was deep and lasting. |