BALLADS, SONGS, &c.

THE brilliant black eye

May in triumph let fly

All its darts without caring who feels 'em ;
But the soft eye of blue,

Though it scatter wounds too,

Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.
Dear Fanny! dear Fanny!

The soft eye of blue,

Though it scatter wounds too,

Is much better pleased when it heals 'em, dear Fanny!

II.

The black eye may say,

"Come and worship my ray,

"By adoring, perhaps you may move me!" But the blue eye, half hid,

Says, from under its lid,

"I love, and I'm yours if you love me!"
Dear Fanny! dear Fanny!

The blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,

"I love, and am yours if you love me!" dear Fanny!

III.

Then tell me oh! why,

In that lovely eye,

Not a charm of its tint I discover;

Or why should you wear

The only blue pair

That ever said "No" to a lover?

Dear Fanny! dear Fanny!

Oh! why should you wear

The only blue pair

That ever said "No" to a lover, dear Fanny?

CEASE, OH CEASE TO TEMPT!

I.

CEASE, oh cease to tempt

My tender heart to love!

It never, never can

So wild a flame approve.

All its joys and pains

To others I resign;

But be the vacant heart,

The careless bosom mine.

Then cease, oh cease to tempt

My tender heart to love!

It never, never can

So wild a flame approve.
II.

Say, oh say no more

That lover's pains are sweet!

I never, never can

Believe the fond deceit.

Weeping day and night,

Consuming life in sighs,

This is the lover's lot,

And this I ne'er could prize.

Then say, oh say no more

That lovers' pains are sweet!

I never, never can

Believe the fond deceit.

DEAR FANNY!

I.

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 'tis not the first time I have thought so,

Dear Fanny.

II.

"She is lovely!" Then love her, nor let the bliss fly;
"Tis 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?

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.
II.

She felt my lips' impassion❜d touch

'Twas 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.
III.

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.

If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.

FANNY WAS IN THE GROVE.

I.

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?
II.

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?"
III.

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?
IV.

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.

1.

FROM life without freedom, oh! who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?
Hark! hark! 'tis 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?
II.

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! e'en 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.

HERE'S THE BOWER.

I.

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!

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!
II.

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- it is my loved Pilgrim's prayer:
No, no- 'twas 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 wand'ring near.

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 wand'ring, 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
"Tis time for our reposing.

Here, then, my Pilgrim's course is o'er :

"Tis my master! 'tis my master! Welcome here once more; Come to our shed all toil is over;

Pilgrim no more, but knight and lover.

I CAN NO LONGER STIFLE.

I.

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.

II.

This pretty thing's as light, Sir,

As any paper kite, Sir,

And here and there,