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OH, DAYS OF YOUTH.

(FRENCH AIR.)

H days of youth and joy, long clouded,
Why thus for ever haunt my view?
When in the grave your light lay shrouded,
Why did not Memory die there too?
Vainly doth Hope her strain now sing me,
Telling of joys that yet remain-

No, never more can this life bring me

One joy that equals youth's sweet pain.

Dim lies the way to death before me,

Cold winds of Time blow round my brow; Sunshine of youth! that once fell o'er me,

Where is your warmth, your glory now? 'Tis not that then no pain could sting me; 'Tis not that now no joys remain ; Oh, 'tis that life no more can bring me One joy so sweet as that worst pain.

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

(SCOTCH AIR.)

FT, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me;

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Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends, so link'd together,

I've seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather;

I feel like one,

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled,

Whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed!

Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD.

(SWEDISH AIR.)

HEN Love was a child, and went idling round.
'Mong flowers, the whole summer's day,
One morn in the valley a bower he found,
So sweet, it allured him to stay.

O'erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair,

A fountain ran darkly beneath ;

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'Twas Pleasure had hung up the flow'rets there; Love knew it, and jump'd at the wreath.

But Love didn't know-and, at his weak years,
What urchin was likely to know?—

That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears
The fountain that murmur'd below.

He caught at the wreath-but with too much haste,
As boys when impatient will do—

It fell in those waters of briny taste,

And the flowers were all wet through.

This garland he now wears night and day;
And, though it all sunny appears

With Pleasure's own light, each leaf, they say,
Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears.

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SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well,
May calm and sunshine long be thine!

How fair thou art let others tell,—
To feel how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell

In memory's dream that sunny smile, Which o'er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle.

"T was light, indeed, too blest for one, Who had to turn to paths of careThrough crowded haunts again to run, And leave thee bright and silent there;

No more unto thy shores to come,

But, on the world's rude ocean tost, Dream of thee sometimes, as a home Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours

To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, Like Sorrow's veil on Beauty's brow.

For, though unrivall'd still thy grace,

Thou dost not look, as then, too blest ;

But, thus in shadow, seem'st a place

Where erring man might hope to rest

Might hope to rest, and find in thee

A gloom like Eden's, on the day

He left its shade, when every tree,

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!

And all the lovelier for thy tears

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