OH, DAYS OF YOUTH.

(FRENCH AIR.)

On days of youth and joy, long clouded,
Why thus for ever haunt my view?
When in the grave your light lay shrouded,
Why did not Memory die there too?
Vainly doth Hope her strain now sing me,
Telling of joys that yet remain-
No, never more can this life bring me

One joy that equals youth's sweet pain.

Dim lies the way to death before me,

Cold winds of Time blow round my brow; Sunshine of youth! that once fell o'er me, Where is your warmth, your glory now? 'Tis not that then no pain could sting me; 'Tis not that now no joys remain; Oh. 'tis that life no more can bring me One joy so sweet as that worst pain.

WHEN FIRST THAT SMILE.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

WHEN first that smile, like sunshine, bless'd my sight,

Oh what a vision then came o'er me!
Long years of love, of calm and pure delight,

Seem'd in that smile to pass before me.
Ne'er did the peasant dream of summer skies,
Of golden fruit, and harvests springing,
With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes,
And of the joy their light was bringing.

Where now are all those fondly promis'd hours?
Ah! woman's faith is like her brightness-
Faling as fast as rainbows, or day-flowers,
Or aught that's known for grace and lightness.
Short as the Persian's prayer, at close of day,
Should be each vow of Love's repeating;
Quick let him worship Beauty's precious ray
Ev'n while he kneels, that ray is fleeting!

PEACE TO THE SLUMB'RERS! (CATALONIAN AIR.)

PEACE to the slumb'rers!

They lie on the battle-plain, With no shroud to cover them;

The dew and the summer rain

Are all that weep over them.

Peace to the slumb'rers!

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.

Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task;
But mark how things went on:
These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask
Their name and age, were gone!

So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,
That, though she charm'd into them
New game each hour, the youngest Love
Was able to break through them.
Come, listen, maids, &c.

Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought
Of bars too strong to sever,

One Love with golden pinions caught,
And caged him there for ever;
Instructing, thereby, all coquettes,
Whate'er their looks or ages,

That, though 'tis pleasant weaving Nets,
"Tis wiser to make Cages.

Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile The task your fingers ply.May all who hear like Susan smile, And not, like Cloe, sigh!

"The reason

1 Suggested by the following remark of Swift: why so few marriages are happy, is because young ladies spend their time in making nets, not in making cages."