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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 These flights of birds, sat still at home, One small, neat Love-cage making.

Come, listen, maíds, etc.

“Here are knots," said Hymen, taking Some loose flowers, “ of Love's own making ; Here are gold ones you may trust 'em"(These, of course, found ready custom.)

“Come buy my love-knots!

Come buy my love-knots ! Some are labellid ‘Knots to tie men'Love the maker'— Bought of Hymen.' Scarce their bargains were completed, When the nymphs all cried, “We're cheated ! See these flowers—they 're drooping sadly ; This gold-knot, too, ties but badly

Who'd buy such love-knots ?

Who'd buy such love-knots ?
Even this tie, with Love's name round it-
All a sham-he never bound it."

Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task;

But mark how things went on:
These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask

Their name and age, were gone!
So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,

That, though she charm'd into them
New game each hour, the youngest Love
Was able to break through them.

Come, listen, maids, etc.

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In garb, then, resembling

Some gay gondolier,
I'll whisper thee, trembling,

“Our bark, love, is near : Now, now, while there hover

Those clouds o'er the moon, "T will waft thee safe over

Yon silent Lagoon."

NETS AND CAGES.

Swedish air.
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.
Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames

Such florid songs as ours,
Yet Truth, sometimes, like eastern dames,

Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
Then listen, maids, come listen, while

Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing there's some may smile,

While some, perhaps, will sigh.
Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,

Such nets had learn'd to frame,

GO, NOW, AND DREAM.

Sicilian Air. Go, now,

and dream o'er that joy in thy slumber-. Moments so sweet again ne'er shalt thou number Of Pain's bitter draught the flavour never flies, While Pleasure's scarce touches the lip ere it dies. That moon,

which hung o'er your parting, so splendid, Often will shine again, bright as she then didBut, ah! never more will the beam she saw burn In those happy eyes at your meeting return.

TAKE HENCE THE BOWL.

“I come, my love!" each sound they utter seems to

say ; Neapolitan Air.

“ I come, my love! thine, thine till break of day.” TAKE hence the bowl; though beaming

Oh! weak the power of words,
Brightly as bowl e're shone,

The hues of painting dim,
Oh! it but sets me dreaming

Compared to what those simple chords
Of days, of nights now gone.

Then say and paint to him.
There, in its clear reflection,

As in a wizard's glass,
Lost hopes and dead affection,
Like shades, before me pass.

WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE.

German Air.
Each cup I drain brings hither

WHEN the first summer bee
Some friend who once sat by-
Bright lips, too bright to wither,

O'er the young rose shall hover,

Then, like that gay rover,
Warm hearts, too warm to die !
Till, as the dream comes o'er me

I'll come to thee.
Of those long vanish'd years,

He to flowers, I to lips, full of sweets to the brimThen, then the cup before me

What a meeting, what a meeting for me and him! Seems turning all to tears.

Then, to every bright tree

In the garden he'll wander,

While I, oh! much fonder,

Will stay with thee.
FAREWELL, THERESA.

In search of new sweetness through thousands he 'L

run, Venetian Air.

While I find the sweetness of thousands one, FAREWELL, Theresa! that cloud which over

Yon moon this moment gath'ring we see, Shall scarce from her pure path have pass'd, ere thy lover

THOUGH 'T IS ALL BUT A DREAM Swift o'er the wide wave shall wander from thee.

French Air

Though 't is all but a dream at the best, Long, like that dim cloud, I've hung around thee,

And still when happiest soonest o'er, Dark'ning thy prospects, sadd’ning thy brow;

Yet, even in a dream to be bless'd With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found

Is so sweet, that I ask for no more. thee;

The bosom that opes with earliest hopes, Oh! think how changed, love, how changed art

The soonest finds those hopes untrue, thou now!

As flowers that first in spring-time burst, But here I free thee: like one awaking

The earliest wither too! From fearful slumber, this dream thou'lt tell;

Ay-'t is all but a dream, etc. The bright moon her spell too is breaking,

By friendship we oft are deceived,
Past are the dark clouds ; Theresa, farewell !

And find the love we clung to past;
Yet friendship will still be believed,

And love trusted on to the last.

The web in the leaves the spider weaves HOW OFT WHEN WATCHING STARS Is like the charm Hope hangs o'er men; Savoyard Air.

Though often she sees it broke by the breeze,

She spins the bright tissue again.
How oft, when watching stars grow pale,

Ay~'t is all but a dream, etc.
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

'T IS WHEN THE CUP IS SMILING. say; “Oh! come, my love! the night wears fast away!

Italian Air.
No, ne'er to mortal ear

"T is when the cup is smiling before us,
Can words, though warm they be,

And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boy. Speak Passion's language half so clear

true, As do those notes to me!

That the sky of this life opens o'er us,

And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue. Then quick my own light lute I seek,

Talk of Adam in Eden reclining, And strike the chords with loudest swell;

We are better, far better off thus, boy, thus ; And, though they nought to others speak,

For him but two bright eyes were shiningHe knows their language well.

See what numbers are sparkling for us'

When on one side the grape-juice is dancing,

And on t'other a blue eye beams, boy, beams, 'T is enough, t'wixt the wine and the glancing,

To disturb even a saint from his dreams. Though this life like a river is flowing,

I care not how fast it goes on, boy, on, While the grape on its bank still is growing,

And such eyes light the waves as they run.

NE'ER TALK OF WISDOM'S GLOOMY

SCHOOLS.

Mahratta Air.
NE'ER talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools;

Give me the sage who's able
To draw his moral thoughts and rules

From the sunshine of the table ;-
Who learns how lightly, fleetly pass

This world and all that's in it,
From the bumper that but crowns his glass,

And is gone again next minute.
The diamond sleeps within the mine,

The pearl beneath the water,-
While Truth, more precious, dwells in wine,

The grape's own rosy daughter !
And none can prize her charms like him,

Oh! none like him obtain her,
Who thus can, like Leander, swim

Through sparkling floods to gain her!

WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR

SHAME?

Neapolitan Air. WHERE shall we bury our shame?

Where, in what desolate place, Hide the last wreck of a name

Broken and stain'd by disgrace? Death may dissever the chain,

Oppression will cease when we're gone: But the dishonour, the stain,

Die as we may, will live on

Was it for this we sent out

Liberty's cry from our shore ? Was it for this that her shout

Thrill'd to the world's very core? Thus to live cowards and slaves,

Oh! ye free hearts that lie dead! Do you not, e'en in your graves,

Shudder, as o'er you we tread?

HERE SLEEPS THE BARD!

Highland Air. HERE sleeps the Bard who knew so well All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell, Whether its music roll'd like torrents near, Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear! Sleep, mute Bard! unheeded now, The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow;That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay; That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies away!

SACRED SONGS,

TO THE REV. THOMAS PARKINSON, D. D.
ARCHDEACON OF LEICESTER, CHANCELLOR OF CHESTER, AND RECTOR OF KEGWORTH,

This Number of “ Sacred Songs” is Inscribed,

BY HIS OBLIGED AND FAITHFUL FRIEND,

Sloperton Cottage, Devizes, May 22, 1824.

THOMAS MOORE.

No. I.

The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but heaven!
THOU ART, OH GOD!

And false the light on Glory's plume,
Air-UNKNOWN.'

As fading hues of Even;

And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom “The day is thine; the night also is thine: thou hast pre

Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb,pared the light and the sun. “ Thou hast set all the borders of the earth; thou hast

There's nothing bright but heaven! made summer and winter.”—Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17.

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven,
Thou art, oh God! the life and light

And fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Of all this wondrous world we see ;

Serve but to light the troubled way-
Its glow by day, its smile by night,

There's nothing calm but heaven!
Are but reflections caught from thee.
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine!

FALLEN IS THY THRONE.
When Day, with farewell beam, delays

Air-MARTINI.
Among the opening clouds of Even,

FALLEN is thy throne, oh Israel!
And we can almost think we gaze

Silence is o'er thy plains;
Through golden vistas into heaven-

Thy dwellings all lie desolate,
Those hues, that make the sun's decline

Thy children weep in chains. So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine.

Where are the dews that fed thee
When Night, with wings of starry gloom,

On Etham's barren shore ?
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,

That fire from heaven which led thee,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume

Now lights thy path no more.
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes—

Lord ! thou didst love Jerusalem-
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,

Once she was all thy own; So grand, so countless, Lord ! are Thine.

Her love thy fairest heritage,'
When youthful Spring around us breathes,

Her power thy glory's throne ::
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;

Till evil came, and blighted
And every flower the Summer wreathes

Thy long-loved olive-tree ;?
Is born beneath that kindling eye.

And Salem's shrines were lighted

For other Gods than Thee!
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine !

Then sunk the star of Solyma

Then pass’d her glory's day,

Like heath that, in the wilderness, 4
THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

The wild wind whirls away.
Air-STEVENSON.

1 "I have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly-beThis world is all a fleeting show,

loved of my soul into the hands of her enemies."-Jeremiah For man's illusion given;

xii. 7.

2 "Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."- Jer. xiv. 21.

3 “ The Lord called thy name a green olive-tree; fair 1 I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. and of goodly fruit,” etc.-Jer. xi. 16. It is sung to the beautiful old words, “I do confess thou'rt 4 “For he shall be like the heath in the desert."Jer smooth and fair."

xvii. 6.

Silent and waste her bowers,

Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where once the mighty trod,

Where idle warblers roam. And sunk those guilty towers,

But high she shoots through air and light, While Baal reign'd as God!

Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, “Go,”-said the Lord—“Ye conquerors !

Nor shadow dims her way.
Steep in her blood your swords,
And rase to earth her battlements,'

So grant me,

God! from every care For they are not the Lord's !

And stain of passion free, Till Zion's mournful daughter

Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, O'er kindred bones shall tread,

To hold my course to Thee ! And Hinnom's vale of slaughter?

No sin to cloud-no lure to stay
Shall hide but half her dead!"

My Soul, as home she springs; -
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,

Thy freedom in her wings !
WHO IS THE MAID?
ST. JEROME'S LOVE.

OH! THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURN-
Air-BEETHOVEN.

ER'S TEAR !
Who is the maid my spirit seeks,

Air-HAYDN.
Through cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?

“He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their Is her's an eye of this world's light ?

wounds.”—Psalm cxlvii. 3. No,-wan and sunk with midnight prayer Are the pale looks of her I love;

Oh! Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear, Or if, at times, a light be there,

How dark this world would be, Its beam is kindled from above.

If, when deceived and wounded here,
I chose not her, my soul's elect,

We could not fly to Thee.
From those who seek their Maker's shrine The friends who in our sunshine live,
In gems and garlands proudly deck’d,

When winter comes, are flown;
As if themselves were things divine!

And he who has but tears to give,
No-Heaven but faintly warms the breast

Must
weep

those tears alone.
That beats beneath a broider'd veil;

But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, And she who comes in glittering vest

Which, like the plants that throw To mourn her frailty, still is frail.4

Their fragrance from the wounded part,

Breathes sweetness out of woe.
Not so the faded form I prize
And love, because its bloom is gone ;

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
The glory in those sainted eyes

And even the hope that threw
Is all the grace her brow puts on.

A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright,

Is dimm'd and vanish'd too!
So touching as that form's decay,

Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,
Which, like the altar's trembling light,

Did not thy wing of love
In holy lustre wastes away!

Come, brightly wafting through the gloom

Our peace-branch from above ?
Then sorrow,

touch'd by Thee, grows bright THE BIRD, LET LOOSE.

With more than rapture's ray;

As darkness shows us worlds of light
Air-BEETHOVEN.

We never saw by day!
THE bird, let loose in eastern skies,

When hastening fondly home, 1 “Take away her battlements; for they are not the

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE. Lord's." - Jer. v. 10. 2 “Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that

Air-Avison. it shall no more be cailed Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb, of Hinnom, but the Valley of Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet till there be no place."--Jer. vii. 32.

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, 3 These lines were suggested by a passage in St. Jerome's Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, reply to some calumnious remarks that had been circulated

Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. upon his intimacy with the matron Paula :-"Numquid me vestes sericæ, nitentes gemmæ, picta facies, aut auri rapuit Death chill'd the fair fountain ere sorrow had stain'dit, ambitio ? Nulla fuit alia Romæ matronarum, quæ meam 'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, possit edomare mentem, nisi lugens atque jejunans, fletu And but sleeps till the sunshine of heaven has unpene cæcata."-4 Ου γαρ χρυσοφορειντην δακρυουσαν δει.-Chrysost.

chain'd it, Homil. 8. in Epist. ad Tim.

To water that Eden where first was its source! 5 The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, the place to which she is destined.

In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,

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