Song,

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,-
Where the pleasure sages say
Are found in Solitude's drear presence?
'Tis the essence of decay.

Let me rather range the heather,

Spring my drink and roots my meat;

And where wild kids couch together,
Let me rest my weary feet.

Lo! I see the glance of morning
Now adorning yon white wall;

But I cannot rush to meet him,

Cannot greet him free from thrall.

Oh, if once I had thee, Freedom,
Come with poverty or pain;
Riches, I would never need 'em-
Ne'er love Solitude again.

To a Beceitful Beauty,

Enclosing a Present she had made the Writer.

When first I met thee warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,-
Such promise on thy lips there hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.-Moore.

Take back the gift in friendship given,
If it were friendship thus could alter;
Each tie that bound us now is riven,-

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 worst thy malice could engender;
The cause I know not-cannot guess;
Such was thy love, and oh how slender!

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,

L

And far thro' life would I have roved
Ere to such sheer unkindness fated.

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
Than lightning flash more dim,
And she is not her mother's now,-

That gay and sylphid thing,—
For her fate is altered with her name,
And her finger wears a ring.

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 cloudless be thy brow

As the happy being's that we look on
So admiring now?

May that brow of pearly whiteness
Ne'er shrouded be with care,

In the bower of a prince the rose blushes in bright

ness,

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,
So art thou to the breast where thou reignest,
That dares not to hope; yet how cruel 'twould be
To trample the heart which thou gainest.
Forget, then, that one who a moment could pain,

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?"