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Supposed to be sung in a Prison.
Air,-"The Fairy Boy."
'Tis night, and now the sun is sleeping; Stars are keeping watch on high; Here alone, a pris'ner lying,
Vainly sighing, such am I, Nought around, below, above me, Save the walls that gird my cell;
Not a fly to teach to love me,
In the dungeon where I dwell.
Where is now the secret treasure,—
Let me rather range the heather,
Spring my drink and roots my meat;
And where wild kids couch together,
Lo! I see the glance of morning
To a Deceitful Beauty,
Enclosing a Present she had made the Writer.
When first I met thee warm and young,
Take back the gift in friendship given,.
To speak of thee my tongue must falter.
Go, keep it; for 'twould but remind
Of happy days that now are vanished; Let memory linger not behind
On hours from thy remembrance banished.
Scorn thou hast shown me,-bitterness,
The cause I know not-cannot guess;
How false and fickle woman's heart,
Fool, should experience not have taught me? Then had I now not felt the smart
That thy desertion since has brought me.
I'd known to be by woman loved,
Is but to be in short time hated,
And far thro' life would I have roved
Let others bask a little while
Under the curling of thy brow,Beneath a woman's frown or smile I never lived, nor will I now.
I cannot sigh,-I dare not fret,
Since 'tis thy will that we must sever; I sued not haughty woman yet—
And will I now? Nay; never, never!
On seeing the Portrait of a Bride.
She's girded in a flowing dress
Of purity and white;
Sweet is her maiden smile
With nature's joyousness and light, Roses are 'twined amongst
The clustering ringlets of her hair, And a lily on her bosom laid
But oh, not half so fair.
She thinks not of her early days
She only thinks of him
Whose eye, when meeting hers, was ne'er
That gay and sylphid thing,-
Her dreams of love are all passed o'er,
Reality is now
Circling its placid crown of bliss
Upon her snowy brow.
No kindred share with him her thoughts;
Her soul its vows hath given ;
And she seems, all radiant in her charms, An angel wing'd for Heaven.
May my love be as bright a one,-
As the happy being's that we look on
May that brow of pearly whiteness
Nor may the widow's sable veil
In the bower of a prince the rose blushes in bright
And breathes its sweet perfume around it; The lily scarce vying thy neck in its whiteness,
Ne'er shrinks from the hand that doth wound it. Couldst thou dare e'en to look with an eye beaming love,
On that flower that is so much above thee? Dare I then avow that 'thy presence doth move,'"Oh, why hast thou taught me to love thee?"
Yet, vain is regret,-like that flower to thee,
Nor e'er let his memory move thee;
I burn while I speak it, yet dare not complain"Oh why hast thou taught me to love thee?"