THE LARK.

Written for a Polish air, and partly translated from the original Polish words.

THE morn scarce breaks o'er the dewy earth,
Ere the gay lark wakes his strain of mirth:

Glad songster, on, through the bright'ning sky!
Herald the sun with thy minstrelsy,

Amid the clouds o'er the mountain high,

Far from thy native earth.

Sing on, in exulting gladness sing,

As thou upward fliest on thy glittering wing.
Thy matin hymn cheers my daily toil,

As I guide the plough o'er my native soil;
When harvest comes thou'lt share the spoil-
Then sing on, sweet warbler, sing!

The sun arises, as, lightly gay

O'er the heaving furrows I take my way.
And in Autumn the bright, rich, golden grain
O'er my native valley shall wave again,
Rewarding thee for the joyous strain

That cheered the ploughman's way.

But ere that harvest, the tyrant's band
May destroy the work of my careful hand,—
Lay waste the home of my childhood's glee;
They will not fling e'en a crumb to thee:
Then sing o'er the ruins a dirge for me,-
A lament for thy native land!

THE FREE'D HEART.

Allegro.

WHO sighs for Love? not I, not I;

I laugh as the little God wanders by!
My heart is as free

As yon lark on the wing,

And gaily as he

I merrily sing.

Where'er young Cupid may raise a shrine,

He'll never enthral this heart of mine.

Penseroso è espressivo.

Who laughs at Love? not I, not I;

My song is hushed by a bursting sigh!

And I own his might,

For a lofty brow

And an eye of light

Have subdued me now;

And a lip that aye whispers of love to me,

Hath doomed my heart to captivity.

Tempo primo.

Who trusts false Love? not I, not I;

Prizes raven hair and radiant eye?

I've broken my chain,

And my heart is free,

I can sing again

With my wonted glee;

Love ne'er shall touch with his poison'd dart My maiden peace or my gladsome heart!

I'M SAD TO-NIGHT.

Howe'er it be, I cannot but be sad.

SHAKSPEARE.

I'm sad to-night-I cannot wake

The music of my lyre;

The mournful notes sound faint and low,

They sigh-and then expire :

No joyous echo gently wafts

The softened chords along;

Type of my fate-unloved and lone
Dies my sad, dirge-like song.

I'm lone, I'm very lone to-night,
E'en by the social hearth;
And vainly strive to wear the smile,
The sunny smile of mirth.

I know ye deem it passing strange,
The gloom upon my brow,

The tears that all unbidden fall

Over my pale cheek now.

Y