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Such was the scene this lovely glade
And its fair inmates now display'd,
As round the fount, in linked ring,
They went, in cadence slow and light,
And thus to that enchanted spring
Warbled their farewell for the night:-

MAIDENS OF ZIA.

HERE, while the moonlight dim
Falls on that mossy brim,
Sing we our Fountain Hymn,

Maidens of ZIA!

Nothing but music's strain,
When lovers part in pain,
Soothes till they meet again,
Oh, maids of Zia!

Bright fount, so clear and cold,
Round which the nymphs of old
Stood with their locks of gold,
Bright Fount of Zia!
Not even CASTALY,

Famed though its streamlet be,
Murmurs or shines like thee,
Oh, Fount of Zia!

Thou, while our hymn we sing,
Thy silver voice shalt bring,
Answering, answering,

Sweet Fount of ZIA!

Oh! of all rills that run,
Sparkling by moon or sun,
Thou art the fairest one,
Bright Fount of ZIA!

Now, by those stars that glance
Over heav'n's still expanse,
Weave we our mirthful dance,
Daughters of ZIA!

Such as in former days,
Were danced, by Dian's rays,
Where the EUROTAS Strays,'

Oh, maids of ZIA!

But when to merry feet
Breasts with no echo beat,
Say, can the dance be sweet?

Maidens of ZIA!

No, nought but music's strain,
When lovers part in pain,

Soothes till they meet again,

Oh, maids of ZIA!

Qualis in Eurotæ ripis, aut per juga Cynthi
Exercet Diana choros.-VIRGIL.

A Set of Glees.

TO MRS JEFFREY,

IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE PLEASANT HOURS PASSED AT CRAIG-CROOK, WITH HER AND MY VALUED FRIEND HER HUSBAND, I HAVE GREAT PLEASURE IN INSCRIBING THE FOLLOWING GLEES.

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COME, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim,

He who shrinks from a bumper, I pledge not to him:

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Ev'n faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one: Here's « the poet who sings-here 's the warrior who fights

Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue, Here's the statesman who speaks in the cause of man's

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rights!»
Charge!

Hip, hip, hip, hip, hip, hurra, hurra, hurra!

Come, once more a bumper!-then drink as you please, Though who could fill half-way to such toasts as these? Here's «< our next joyous meeting-and, oh, when we

meet

May our wine be as bright, and our union as sweet!»>

Charge!

Hip, hip, hip, hip, hip, hurra, hurra, hurra!

THE WATCHMAN.

Good night, good night, my dearestHow fast the moments fly!

"T is time to part-thou hearest That hateful watchman's cry.

Past twelve o'clock ! past twelve!

Yet stay a moment longer :
Alas! why is it so ?—

The wish to stay grows stronger
The more 't is time to go.

Past one o'clock! past one!

Now wrap thy cloak about thee;

The hours must sure go wrong,

For, when they 're pass'd without thee,
They 're, oh! ten times as long.
Past two o'clock ! past two!

Again that dreadful warning!
Had ever time such flight?
And see the sky-'t is morning-
So now, indeed, good night.
Past three o'clock ! past three!

THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE.

ON to the field! our doom is sea!'d

To conquer or be slaves:

The sun shall see our nation free,

Or shine upon our graves!

Farewell, oh! farewell, my love!
May Heaven thy guardian be,
And send bright angels from above,
To bring thee back to me.

On to the field-the battle-field,

Where freedom's standard waves! This sun shall see our tyrant yield, Or shine upon our graves. Hark! the trumpet's signal blastTake this last farewell!

Yet, oh! not the last;

On to the field!

For hope whispers fondly that hearts so united,

So happy, ev'n death would be loth to destroy,

And, checking his dark hand, would pause ere he blighted

A love but just opening in sunshine and joy.

Onward to the battle-field,

Where freedom's standard waves!

This sun shall see our tyrant yield,

Or shine upon our graves!

HUSH, HUSH!

« HUSH, hush!»-how well
That sweet word sounds,
When Love, the little sentinel,
Walks his night rounds!
Then, if a foot but dare
One rose-leaf crush,
Myriads of voices in the air,
Whisper << Hush, hush!»

« Hark, hark! 't is he,»>
The night-elves cry,

And hush their fairy harmony

While he steals by.

But if his silv'ry feet

One dew-drop brush,

Voices are heard, in chorus sweet, Whisp'ring,« Hush, hush !»

SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE?

SAY, what shall we dance?

Shall we bound along the moonlight plain,
To music of France, of Italy, Greece, or Spain?
Shall we, like them who rove
Through bright Granada's grove,

To the light bolero's measures move?
Or prefer the Guraxia's soft languishing lay,
And thus to its sounds die away?
Say, what shall we dance?

Sound the gay chords

Let us hear each strain from ev'ry shore
That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er.
Hark! 't is the light march, to whose measured time,
The Polonaise, by her lover led,

Delights through the gay saloon with slow step to tread;
Or, sweeter still, through moonlight walks,
Whose dim shadows serve to hide
The blush raised by him who talks

Of love the while by her side.

Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound Like dreams, we go gliding around.

Say, which shall we dance?

THE EVENING GUN.
REMEMB'REST thou that setting sun,
The last I saw with thee?

When loud we heard the evening gun,
Peal o'er the twilight sea.
The sounds appear'd to sweep,
Far o'er the verge of day,
Into realms beyond the deep
They seem'd to die away.

Oft, when the toils of day are done,
In pensive dreams of thee,

I sit to hear that evening gun
Peal o'er the stormy sea:
And while o'er billows curl'd

The distant sounds decay,

I weep, and wish from this rough world Like them, to die away.

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DEAR FANNY.

SHE has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool;
She has wit, but you must not be caught so;

Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool,
And 't is not the first time I have thought so,

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Dear Fanny.

She is lovely! Then love her, nor let the bliss fly; 'T is the charm of youth's vanishing season:

Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny
That Love reasons much better than Reason,
Dear Fanny?

DID NOT.

'T was a new feeling-something more
Than we had dared to own before,

Which then we hid not, which then we hid not:
We saw it in each other's eye,

And wish'd, in every murmur'd sigh,
To speak, but did not; to speak, but did not.

She felt my lips' impassion'd touch-
'T was the first time I dared so much,
And yet she chid not, and yet she chid not;
But whisper'd o'er my burning brow,
«Oh! do you doubt I love you now?»
Sweet soul! I did not, sweet soul! I did not.

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill, I press'd it closer, closer still, Though gently bid not, though gently bid not; Till-oh! the world hath seldom heard Of lovers, who so nearly err'd, And yet who did not, and yet who did not.

FANNY, DEAREST !

On! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,

Fanny, dearest! for thee I'd sigh; And every smile on my cheek should turn To tears, when thou art nigh.

But, between love, and wine, and sleep,

So busy a life I live,

That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then bid me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!

The love, that 's order'd to bathe in wine,
Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny, dearest! thy image lies;
But, oh! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimm'd too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,

Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 't is but to see thee truly bright
That I keep my eye-beam clear.

Then wait no longer till tears shall flow-
Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.

FANNY WAS IN THE GROVE.

FANNY was in the grove,

And Lubin, her boy, was nigh; Her eye was warm with love,

And her soul was warm as her eye. Oh! oh! if Lubin now would sue, Oh! oh! what could Fanny do?

Fanny was made for bliss,

But she was young and shy; And when he had stolen a kiss,

She blush'd, and said with a sigh«< Oh! oh! Lubin, ah! tell me true, Oh! oh! what are you going to do?» They wander'd beneath the shade,

Her eye was dimm'd with a tear, For ah! the poor little maid

Was thrilling with love and fear. Oh! oh! if Lubin would but sue, Oh! oh! what could Fanny do!

Sweetly along the grove

The birds sang all the while, And Fanny now said to her love, With a frown that was half a smile

«Oh! oh! why did Lubin sue?

Oh! oh! why did Lubin sue?»>

Viver en Cadenas.

FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

FROM life without freedom, oh! who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?
Hark!-hark! 't is the trumpet! the call of the brave,
The death-song of tyrants and dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding-oh! fly to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.
From life without freedom, oh! who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains—
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains!
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh! even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not at least we shall find her in heaven.
In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.

Roses now unheeded sigh ;

Where's the hand to wreathe them? Songs around neglected lie,

Where's the lip to breathe them? Here's the bower she loved so much,

And the tree she planted;

Here's the harp she used to touch-
Oh! how that touch enchanted!
Spring may bloom, but she we loved
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness!
Time, that once so fleetly moved,

Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she stray'd,
Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er form'd a brighter maid,

Nor Pity wept a dearer!

Here's the bower she loved so much,

And the tree she planted;

Here's the harp she used to touch-
Oh! how that touch enchanted!

HOLY BE THE PILGRIM'S SLEEP.

HOLY be the Pilgrim's sleep,

From the dreams of terror free; And may all, who wake to weep, Rest to-night as sweet as he! Hark! hark! did I hear a vesper swell!

No, no 't is my loved Pilgrim's prayer:
No, no-'t was but the convent bell,
That tolls upon the midnight air.
Holy be the Pilgrim's sleep!
Now, now again, the voice I hear,
Some holy man is wandering here.

O Pilgrim! where hast thou been roaming?
Dark is the way, and midnight 's coming.
Stranger, I've been o'er moor and mountain,
To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain.
And, Pilgrim, say, where art thou going?
Dark is the way, the winds are blowing.
Weary with wandering, weak, I falter,
To breathe my vows at Agnes' altar.
Strew, then, oh! strew his bed of rushes;
Here he shall rest till morning blushes.

Peace to them whose days are done,
Death their eyelids closing;
Hark! the burial-rite 's begun-
'T is time for our reposing.

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HERE'S THE BOWER.

HERE'S the bower she loved so much,
And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch-
Oh! how that touch enchanted!

I CAN NO LONGER STIFLE.

I CAN no longer stifle

How much I long to rifle
That little part
They call the heart

Of you, you lovely trifle!

You can no longer doubt it,
So let me be about it;
Or on my word,

And by the Lord,
I'll try to do without it.

This pretty thing's as light, Sir, As any paper kite, Sir;

And here and there,

And God knows where, She takes her wheeling flight, Sir. U's lovers, to amuse us,

Unto her tail she nooses;

There, hung like bobs

Of straw, or nobs,

She whisks us where she chuses.

I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.

I SAW the moon rise clear

O'er hills and vales of snow, Nor told my fleet rein-deer The track I wish'd to go. But quick he bounded forth;

For well my rein-deer knew I've but one path on earth

The path which leads to you.

The gloom that winter cast

How soon the heart forgets!
When summer brings, at last,

The sun that never sets.
So dawn'd my love for you;
Thus chasing every pain,
Than summer sun more true,
'T will never set again.

JOYS THAT PASS AWAY.

Joys that pass away like this,
Alas ! are purchased dear,

If every beam of bliss

Is follow'd by a tear.

Fare thee well! oh, fare thee well!

Soon, too soon, thou 'st broke the spell,
Oh! I ne'er can love again

The girl whose faithless art
Could break so dear a chain,

And with it break my heart.
Once, when truth was in those eyes,
How beautiful they shone!

But now that lustre flies,

For truth, alas! is gone.

Fare thee well! oh, fare thee well!
How I've loved my hate shall tell.

Oh ! how lorn, how lost would prove

Thy wretched victim's fate,

If, when deceived in love,

He could not fly to hate!

LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

LIGHT Sounds the harp when the combat is overWhen heroes are resting, and joy is in bloomWhen laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

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