GREEK AIR.

List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,
While, from Ilissus' silv'ry springs,

She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, Dreams of bright days that never can return; When Athens nurs'd her olive bough,

With hands by tyrant pow'r unchain'd; And braided for the muse's brow

A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd. When heroes trod each classic field

Where coward feet now faintly falter; When ev'ry arm was Freedom's shield, And ev'ry heart was Freedom's altar!

FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

Hark, 'tis the sound that charms
The war-steed's wak'ning ears!
Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears!
And, though her fond heart sink with fears,
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valour's fever at the sound.
See, from his native hills afar
The rude Helvetian flies to war;
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights;

A conqueror oft - a hero never-
Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
As if 'twere like his mountain rill,
And gush'd for ever!

391

Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar; Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears; And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before, Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.

SWISS AIR.-"RANZ DES VACHES."

But, wake the trumpet's blast again, And rouse the ranks of warrior-men! Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs, And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm, "Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form, And, like Heaven's light'ning, sacredly destroys. Nor, Music, through thy breathing sphere, Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear Of Him who made all harmony,

Than the bless'd sound of fetters breaking, And the first hymn that man, awaking From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty.

SPANISH CHORUS.

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Bursts the bold, enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air;
And seems, in every note, to swear
By Saragossa's ruin'd streets,

By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That, while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain the conqu'ror's glory.

SPANISH AIR.-"YA DESPERTO."

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,

If neither valour's force nor wisdom's light
Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal,
Which shuts so close the book of Europe's right—
What song shall then in sadness tell

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes, remember'd well,

Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded? What muse shall mourn the breathless brave, In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine? What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? Oh Erin, Thine!

SPIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies

In youthful hearts that hope like mine; And 'tis the light of laughing eyes,

That leads us to thy fairy shrine. There if we find the sigh, the tear,

They are not those to Sorrow known; But breath so soft, and drops so clear, That Bliss may claim them for her own. Then give me, give me, while I weep, The sanguine hope that brightens woe, And teaches ev'n our tears to keep

The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child, who sees the dew of night

Upon the spangled hedge at morn, Attempts to catch the drops of light,

But wounds his finger with the thorn. Thus oft the brightest joys we seek,

Are lost, when touch'd, and turn'd to pain; The flush they kindled leaves the cheek, The tears they waken long remain.

But give me, give me, &c. &c.

To sigh, yet feel no pain,

To weep, yet scarce know why;

To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by.

To kneel at many a shrine,

Yet lay the heart on none;

To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won.
This is love, faithless love,

Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,

Through life unchill'd, unmov'd, To love, in wintry age, the same As first in youth we lov'd,

To feel that we adore,

Ev'n to such fond excess,

That, though the heart would break, with more,

It could not live with less.

This is love, faithful love,

Such as saints might feel above.

WHEN Leila touch'd the lute,
Not then alone 'twas felt,

But, when the sounds were mute,
In memory still they dwelt.
Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she, who stole
Such breath from simple wire,
Be led, in pride of soul,

To string with gold her lyre? Sweet lute thy chords she breaketh; Golden now the strings she waketh?

But where are all the tales
Her lute so sweetly told?
In lofty themes she fails,

And soft ones suit not gold. Rich lute we see thee glisten, But, alas! no more we listen!

BOAT GLEE.

THE song that lightens our languid way
When brows are glowing,
And faint with rowing,

Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,
As we row along through waves so clear,
Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile
That shines o'er Sorrow's tear.
Nothing is lost on him who sees

With an eye that Feeling gave;
For him there's a story in every breeze,
And a picture in every wave.

Then sing to lighten the languid way; -
When brows are glowing,
And faint with rowing:

'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.

393

On think, when a hero is sighing,
What danger in such an adorer!
What woman could dream of denying
The hand that lays laurels before her?
No heart is so guarded around,

But the smile of a victor would take it;
No bosom can slumber so sound,

But the trumpet of Glory will wake it. Love sometimes is given to sleeping,

And woe to the heart that allows him; For soon neither smiling nor weeping

Will e'er from such slumber arouse him. But though he were sleeping so fast,

That the life almost seem'd to forsake him, Even then, one soul-thrilling blast

SONG.'

THOUGH sacred the tie that our country entwineth,
And dear to the heart her remembrance remains,
Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,
And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.
Oh Liberty, born in the cot of the peasant,
But dying of languor in luxury's dome,
Our vision, when absent our glory, when pre-

sent

Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.

wander'd!

In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave; Unbless'd is the blood that for tyrants is squander'd, And Fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave.

But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the com

motion

Of Europe, as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam; With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the

ocean,

Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

1 Sung in the character of a Frenchman.

HH

And so savage is he, that his own dear mother
Is scarce more safe in his hands than another.
In short, to sum up this darling's praise,
He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways;
And if any one wants such an imp to employ,
He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy.
But see,
the boy wakes his bright tears flow-
His eyes seem to ask could I sell him? oh no,
Sweet child, no, no — though so naughty you be,
You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me.

TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

To weave a garland for the rose,

And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be Were far less vain than to suppose

That silks and gems add grace to thee. Where is the pearl whose orient lustre Would not, beside thee, look less bright? What gold could match the glossy cluster Of those young ringlets full of light?

Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams,
The bright blue gem of India's mine,
And see how soon, though bright its beams,
"Twill pale before one glance of thine :
Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us
With some divine, mellifluous air,
Who would not say that Beauty's cestus
Had let loose all its witch'ries there?

Here, to this conqu'ring host of charms

I now give up my spell-bound heart, Nor blush to yield ev'n Reason's arms,

When thou her bright-ey'd conqu’ror art. Thus to the wind all fears are given;

Henceforth those eyes alone I see, Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven, Sits beck'ning me to bliss and thee!

3

Ούτε ροδων στεφάνων επιδεύεσαι, ούτε σε πέπλων
Ap. BRUNCS. VII

και η μελίφυρτος εκείνη

Ήθεος άρμοντη, κεστος του Παφίης

WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY ?1

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

WHY does she so long delay?
Night is waning fast away;
Thrice have I my lamp renew'd,
Watching here in solitude.
Where can she so long delay?
Where, so long delay ?

Vainly now have two lamps shone;
See the third is nearly gone :2

Oh that Love would, like the ray
Of that weary lamp, decay!
But no, alas! it burns still on,
Still, still, burns on.

Gods, how oft the traitress dear
Swore, by Venus, she'd be here!
But to one so false as she
What is man or deity?
Neither doth this proud one fear, -
No, neither doth she fear.

For, thee the Graces still attend,

Presiding o'er each new attire, And lending ev'ry dart they send Some new, peculiar touch of fire. Be what thou wilt,- this heart Adores whate'er thou art!

WHEN THE SAD WORD.S

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

WHEN the sad word, “ Adieu," from my lip is nigh falling,

And with it, Hope passes away,

Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling

That fatal farewell, bids me stay
For oh! 'tis a penance so weary

One hour from thy presence to be,
That death to this soul were less dreary,
Less dark than long absence from thee.

Thy beauty, like Day, o'er the dull world breaking,
Brings life to the heart it shines o'er.

And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking
Made light what was darkness before.
But mute is the Day's sunny glory,

While thine hath a voice, on whose breath,
More sweet than the Syren's sweet story,'

My hopes hang, through life and through death!

MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.

BY PHILODEMUS.

Mr Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown,
But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down,
And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;
In short, she has woven such nets round my heart,
That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,—
Unless I can find one that's dearer.

Her voice hath a music that dwells on the car,
And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear,
That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her;
Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net,

Σώζει σοι μελλων ενέπειν,

Ap. BRUNCK. xxxix. Ήματι γαρ στο φεγγος όμοιον, αλλά το μεν που Αφθογγον.

Δηθύνει Κλεοφαντες.

5

Συ δ' εμοί και το λάλημα φέρεις Κείνο, το Σειρήνων γλυκερώτερον.

Μικκη και μελανεύσα Φιλίννιον.

Αργενναις οθονησι κατηορα βοστρυχα κεύθεις.

Ap. BRUNCK. X.