When the beautiful hue Of thy cheek thro' the dew Of morning is bashfully peeping, "Sweet tears," I shall say (As I brush them away), "At least there's no art in this weeping." Altho' thou shouldst die to-morrow, 'T will not be from pain or sorrow; And the thorns of thy stem Are not like them With which men wound each other: SHINE OUT, STARS! SHINE out, Stars! let Heaven assemble And would Love, too, bring his sweet ness, With our other joys to weave, Then would crown this bright May Shine out, Stars! let night assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, To adorn this Eve of May. THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA. OH, the joys of our evening posada, Where, resting at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Sit and sing the sunshine away; So merry, that even the slumbers Then as each to his loved sultana Where, resting at close of day, TELL HER, OH, TELL HER. TELL her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying Beneath the green arbor is still lying there; And breezes like lovers around it are sighing, But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer. Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going, Beside the green arbor she playfully set, As lovely as ever is blushing and blowing, And not a bright leaflet has fallen from it yet. So while away from that arbor forsaken, The maiden is wandering, still let her be As true as the lute that no sighing can waken And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree! NIGHTS OF MUSIC. NIGHTS of music, nights of loving, Lost too soon, remembered long. All my spirit felt to thee; |