The rest were all cull'd from the banks of that glade, Lo OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT. (SCOTCH AIR.) OFT, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, 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, Like leaves in wintry weather; I feel like one, Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. LOVE. IS A HUNTER-BOY. (LANGUEDOCIAN AIR.) Love is a hunter-boy, Who makes young hearts his prey: And, in his nets of joy, Ensnares them night and day. In vain conceal'd they lie- Love tracks them everywhere; In vain aloft they fly Love shoots them flying there. But 'tis his joy most sweet, And give the trembler chase. He tracks her footsteps fair, Ir I speak to thee in Friendship's name, Tho' the wings of Love will brightly play, As fast as he flies to thee.· While Friendship, though on foot she come, Will, therefore, oft be found at home, When Love abroad is flying. Which shall it be? How shall I woo? If neither feeling suits thy heart, WHERE ARE THE VISIONS. "WHERE are the visions that round me once hover'd, Time, while I spoke, with his wings resting o'er me, And pointing his wand to the sunset before me, Fondly I look'd, when the wizard had spoken, (CASHMERIAN AIR.) Он, no-not ev'n when first we lov'd, Thy beauty then my senses mov'd, But now thy virtues bind my heart. What was but Passion's sigh before, Has since been turn'd to Reason's vow; And, though I then might love thee more, Trust me, I love thee betier now. Although my heart in earlier youth Much more than it has lost in fire. LIKE one who, doom'd o'er distant seas When home at length, with fav'ring breeze, His ship, in sight of shore, goes down, Is o'er the waters wasted: Like him, this heart, through many a track Of toil and sorrow straying, One hope alone brought fondly back, Like him, alas, I see that ray And one dark minute sweep away What years were given to cherish. |