“ 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 labell'd .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 ? “Take back our love-knots ! Take back our love-knots !"Coolly said, "There's no returning Wares on Hymen's hands—Good morning !" That none, in all our vales and groves, Ere caught so much small game: When Cloe's nets were taking Come, listen, maids, etc. But mark how things went on: Their name and age, were gone! That, though she charm'd into them Come, listen, maids, etc. Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought Of bars too strong to sever, And caged him there for ever; Whate'er their looks or ages, 'Tis wiser to make Cages. Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile The task your fingers ply- Ah! not like Cloe sigh! SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN. Sung at Rome, on Christmas Eve. SEE, the dawn from heaven is breaking o'er our sight, And Earth, from sin awaking, hails the sight! See, those groups of Angels, winging from the realms above, On their sunny brows from Eden bringing wreaths of Hope and Love. Son, WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA Venetian Air. When through the Piazzetta Night breathes her cool air, Then, dearest Ninetta, I'll come to thee there. I'll know thee afar, His own Evening Star. No. IV. In garb, then, resembling Some gay gondolier, “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. Your needle's task you ply; While some, perhaps, may sigh. Such florid songs as ours, Can speak her thoughts by flowers. Your needle's task you ply; While some, perhaps, will sigh. 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 num 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 did But, ah! never more will the beam she saw burn In those happy eyes at your meeting return. “I come, my love!" each sound they utter seems to TAKE HENCE THE BOWL. 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, The hues of painting dim, Compared to what those simple chords Then say and paint to him. As in a wizard's glass, WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE. German Air. WHEN the first summer bee O'er the young rose shall hover, Then, like that gay rover, I'll come to thee. He to flowers, I to lips, full of sweets to the brim What a meeting, what a meeting for me and him! Then, then the cup before me 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. In search of new sweetness through thousands he 'L run, Venetian Air. While I find the sweetness of thousands in 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. 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, The earliest wither too! Ay—'t is all but a dream, etc. By friendship we oft are deceived, And find the love we clung to past; And love trusted on to the last. The web in the leaves the spider weaves Is like the charm Hope hangs o'er men; Though often she sees it broke by the breeze, She spins the bright tissue again. Ay—'t is all but a dream, etc. I from my casement lean. 'T IS WHEN THE CUP IS SMILING. say; Italian Air. “Oh! come, my love! the night wears fast away! No, ne'er to mortal ear 'Tis 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, thw; 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 thee; 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. Give me the sage who's able From the sunshine of the table ;- This world and all that's in it, And is gone again next minute. The pearl beneath the water, The grape's own rosy daughter ! Oh! none like him obtain her, 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, There's nothing true but heaven! And false the light on Glory's plume, 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. There's nothing bright but heaven! “Thou hast set all the borders of the earth; thou hast made summer and winter.”—Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17. Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way- There's nothing calm but heaven! FALLEN IS THY THRONE. Air-MARTINI. FALLEN is thy throne, oh Israel ! Silence is o'er thy plains; Thy dwellings all lie desolate, Thy children weep in chains. So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine. Where are the dews that fed thee On Etham's barren shore ? That fire from heaven which led thee, Now lights thy path no more. Lord! thou didst love Jerusalem- 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 :: Till evil came, and blighted Thy long-loved olive-tree ;? And Salem's shrines were lighted For other Gods than Thee! Then sunk the star of Solyma Then pass'd her glory's day, Like heath that, in the wilderness, The wild wind whirls away. 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. 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, Where once the mighty trod, And sunk those guilty towers, While Baal reign'd as God! “Go,"—said the Lord—“Ye conquerors ! Steep in her blood your swords, And rase to earth her battlements,' For they are not the Lord's! Till Zion's mournful daughter O'er kindred bones shall tread, And Hinnom's vale of slaughter? Shall hide but half her dead!" Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam. Above all low delay, Nor shadow dims her way. And stain of passion free, To hold my course to Thee! My Soul, as home she springs ;- Thy freedom in her wings ! OH! THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURN ER'S TEAR! Air-HAYDN. “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.—Psalm cxlvii. 3. WHO IS THE MAID? Air-BEETHOVEN. Through cold reproof and slander's blight ? Has she Love's roses on her cheeks? Is her's an eye of this world's light? No,-wan and sunk with midnight prayer Are the pale looks of her I love; Or if, at times, a light be there, Its beam is kindled from above. I chose not her, my soul's elect, From those who seek their Maker's shrine In gems and garlands proudly deck’d, As if themselves were things divine! No-Heaven but faintly warms the breast That beats beneath a broider'd veil; And she who comes in glittering vest To mourn her frailty, still is frail.4 Not so the faded form I prize And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away! Oh! Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be, We could not fly to Thee. When winter comes, are flown; Must weep those tears alone. Which, like the plants that throw Breathes sweetness out of woe. And even the hope that threw Is dimm'd and vanish'd too! Did not thy wing of love Our peace-branch from above ? With more than rapture's ray; We never saw by day! THE BIRD, LET LOOSE. Air-BEETHOVEN. 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 ihe 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 upon his intimacy with the matron Paula :-"Numquid me Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. vestes sericæ, nitentes gemmæ, picta facies, aut auri rapuit Death chill'd the fair fountain ere sorrow had stain’d it, ambitio ? Nulla fuit alia Rome 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."-- Epist. “Si tibi putem.' 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, |