And the cuckoo sings unseen,
And the leaves are waving green,-
Oh, then 'tis sweet,
In some retreat,
To hear the murmuring dove,
With those whom on earth alone we love,
And to wind through the greenwood together!
But when 'tis winter weather,
And crosses grieve,
And friends deceive,
The lattice beat,
Oh, then 'tis sweet
To sit and sing
Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring, We roamed through the greenwood together!
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
MANY a beaming brow I've known,
And many a dazzling eye,
And I've listened to many a melting tone
In magic fleeting by;
And mine was never a heart of stone,
And yet my heart hath given to none
The tribute of a sigh;
For fancy's wild and witching mirth
Was dearer than aught I found on earth,
And the fairest forms I ever knew
Were far less fair than -L'Inconnue.
Many an eye that once was bright
Is dark to-day in gloom;
Many a voice that once was light
Is silent in the tomb;
Many a flower that once was dight
In beauty's most entrancing might
Hath faded in its bloom ;
But she is still as fair and gay
As if she had sprung to life to-day;
A ceaseless tone and a deathless hue
Wild fancy hath given to - L'Inconnue.
Many an eye of piercing jet
Hath only gleamed to grieve me,
Many a fairy form I've met,
But none have wept to leave me;
When all forsake and all forget,
One pleasant dream shall haunt me yet,
One hope shall not deceive me;
For oh! when all beside is past,
Fancy is found our friend at last,
And the faith is firm and the love is true
Which are vowed by the lips of - L'Inconnue.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there.
FAREWELL; BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.
FAREWELL; but whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the bright song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return; not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain!
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you;
And still, on the evening when pleasure fills up
To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles;
Too blest if it tells me that,❤mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he were here."
Let Fate do her worst; there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy!
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled;
You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
TEARS, idle tears! I know not what they mean;
Tears, from the depths of some divine despair,
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the under-world;
Sad as the last that reddens over one,
That sinks with all we love below the verge :
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns,
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square :
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret,
O Death in Life! the days that are no more!
WHAT'S A' THE STEER, KIMMER.
JACOBITE SONG. ANONYMOUS.
"WHAT'S a' the steer, Kimmer,
What's a' the steer?"
Charlie, he is landed,
And faith he'll soon be here;
The win' was at his back, Carle,
The win' was at his back;
I carena' sin' he's come, Carle,
We were na' worth a plack.
I'm right glad to hear't, Kimmer,
I'm right glad to hear't;
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