Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long, When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain Was echoed there, shall long be given. But, where is now the cheerful day, Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame, Or, if thy bard have shar'd the crown, His latest song, and still there be, THOSE evening bells! those evening bells! Those joyous hours are pass'd away; : And so 'twill be when I am gone; COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS. (FRENCH AIR.) WHILE I touch the string, Wreathe my brows with laurel, Has, for once, a moral. Common Sense, one night, Though not used to gambols, Went out by moonlight, With Genius, on his rambles. Common Sense went on, Many wise things saying; Soon set Genius straying. One his eye ne'er rais'd From the path before him. On each night-cloud o'er him. While I touch the string, &c. So they came, at last, To a shady river; Common Sense soon pass'd, Safe, as he doth ever, While the boy, whose look Was in Heaven that minute, Never saw the brook But tumbled headlong in it! While I touch the string, &c. How the Wise One smil'd, Dripping from the current! On the bank, 'tis said, Died of that cold river! While I touch the string, &c. THE CRYSTAL-HUNTERS. (Swiss AIR.) O'ER mountains bright With snow and light, We Crystal-hunters speed along; While rocks and caves, And icy waves, Each instant echo to our song; And, when we meet with store of gems, We grudge not kings their diadems. O'er mountains bright With snow and light, We Crystal-hunters speed along; While grots and caves, And icy waves, Each instant echo to our song. Not half so oft the lover dreams That tell where deep the crystal lies; Though, next to crystal, we too grant, That ladies' eyes may most enchant. O'er mountains bright, &c. Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose We thither bend our headlong way; And, though we find no treasure there, We bless the rose that shines so fair. O'er mountains bright With snow and light, We Crystal-hunters speed along; While rocks and caves, And icy waves, Each instant echo to our song. ROW GENTLY HERE. (VENETIAN AIR.) Row gently here, So softly wake the tide, That not an ear On earth may hear, But hers to whom we glide. Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well As starry eyes to see, Oh, think what tales 'twould have to tell Of wandering youths like me! Now rest thee here, My gondolier, Hush, hush, for up I go, To climb yon light While thou keep'st watch below. Ah! did we take for Heaven above But half such pains as we Take, day and night, for woman's love, |