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WHEN abroad in the world thou appearest,
And the young and the lovely are there,
To my heart while of all thou'rt the dearest,
To my eyes thou'rt of all the most fair.
They pass, one by one,

Like waves of the sea,

That say to the Sun,

See, how fair we can be."

But where's the light like thine,

In sun or shade to shine?

No-no, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee, Nothing like thee.

Oft, of old, without farewell or warning,
Beauty's self used to steal from the skies;
Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning,
And post down to earth in disguise;

But, no matter what shroud

Around her might be,
Men peep'd through the clou1,
And whisper'd, "Tis She."
So thou, where thousands are,
Shin'st forth the only star,-

Yes, yes, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
Nothing like thee.

GO, THEN-TIS VAIN.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Go, then-'tis vain to hover
Thus round a hope that's dead;
At length my dream is over;

"Twas sweet-'twas false-'tis fled!
Farewell! since nought it moves thee,
Such truth as mine to see-
Some one, who far less loves thee
Perhaps more bless'd will be.

Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness
New life around me shed;

Farewell, false heart, whose lightness
Now leaves me death instead.
Go, now, those charms surrender
To some new lover's sigh-
One who, though far less tender,
May be more bless'd than I.

THOU LOV'ST NO MORE.

Too plain, alas! my doom is spoken,
Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er;
Thy heart is chang'd, thy vow is broken,
Thou lov'st no more-thou lov'st no more.

Though kindly still those eyes behold me,

The smile is gone, which once they wore; Though fondly still those arms enfold me, 'Tis not the same-thou lov'st no more.

Too long my dream of bliss believing, I've thought thee all thou wert before; But now-alas! there's no deceiving,

'Tis all too plain, thou lov'st no more.

Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken, As lost affection's life restore,

Give peace to her that is forsaken,

Or bring back him who loves no more.

ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE

(INDIAN AIR.)

ALL that's bright must fade,✦

The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made,

But to be lost when sweetest.

Stars that shine and fall;

The flower that drops in springing ;

These, alas! are types of all

To which our hearts are clinging.

All that's bright must fade,

The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest!

Who would seek or prize

Delights that end in aching?

Who would trust to ties

That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be

In utter darkness lying,

Than to be blessed with light, and see
That light for ever flying.

All that's bright must fade,

The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest!

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DOST thou not hear the silver bell, Through yonder lime-trees ringing? 'Tis my lady's light gazelle,

To me her love thoughts bringing,All the while that silver bell

Around his dark neck ringing.

See, in his mouth he bears a wreath,
My love hath kiss'd in tying;
Oh, what tender thoughts beneath
Those silent flowers are lying,-
Hid within the mystic wreath,

My love hath kiss'd in tying!

Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee,
And joy to her, the fairest,

Who thus hath breath'd her soul to me.
In every leaf thou bearest;
Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee,
And joy to her, the fairest.

Hail, ye living, speaking flowers,
That breathe of her who bound ye;
Oh, 'twas not in fields, or bowers,
'Twas on her lips, she found ye;-
Yes, ye blushing, speaking flowers,
'Twas on her lips she found ye.

NETS AND CAGES.

(SWEDISH AIR.)

COME, listen to my story, while
Your needle's task you ply;

At what I sing some maids will smile,

While some, perhaps, may sigh.

Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames

Such florid songs as ours,

Yet Truth sometimes, like eastern dames,

Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
Then listen, maids, come listen, while
Your needle's task you ply;

At what I sing there's some may smile
While some, perhaps, will sigh.

Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,
Such nets had learn'd' to frame,
That none, in all our vales and groves,
E'er caught so much small game:
But gentle Sue, less giv'n to roam,
While Cloe's nets were taking

Such lots of Loves, sat still at home,
One little Love-cage making.

Come, listen, maids, &c.

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