And must we part? then fare thee well;
But he that wails it,—he can tell
How dear thou wert, how dear thou art
And ever must be to this heart;
But now 'tis vain,-it cannot be ;
Farewell! and think no more on me.
Oh yes, this heart would sooner break,
Than one unholy thought awake;
I'd sooner slumber into clay,
Than cloud thy spirits beauteous ray;
Go free as air,-as Angel free,
And lady think no more on me.
O did we meet when brighter star
Sent its fair promise from afar,
I then might hope to call thee mine,
The Minstrel's heart and harp were thine;
But now 'tis past,-it cannot be ;
Farewell and think no more on me.
Or do !-but let it be the hour,
When Mercy's all atoning power,
From his high throne of glory hears
Of souls like thine the prayers, the tears,
Then whilst you bend the suppliant knee;
Then, then O Lady think on me.
Pure is the dewy gem that sleeps
Within the roses fragrant bed,
And dear the heart-warm drop that steeps
The turf where all we loved is laid;
But far more dear, more pure than they,
The tear that washes guilt away.
Sweet is the morning's balmy breath
Along the valley's flowery side,
And lovely on the Moon-lit heath,
The lute's soft tone complaining wide;
But still more lovely, sweeter still,
The sigh that wails a life of ill.
Bright is the morning's roseate gleam
Upon the Mountains of the East,
And soft the Moonlight silvery beam,
Above the billow's placid rest;
But O!-what ray ere shone from Heaven
Like God's first smile on a soul forgiven,
NOTE. This trifle was composed before the Author read MOORE's Paradise and the Peri.
Lady-the lyre thou bid'st me take,
No more can breathe the minstrel strain ; The cold and trembling notes I wake, Fall on the ear like plashing rain; For days of suffering and of pain,
And nights that lull'd no care for me, Have tamed my spirit,-then in vain Thou bid'st me wake my harp for thee.
But could I sweep my ocean lyre,
As once this feeble hand could sweep, Or catch once more the thought of fire, That lit the Mizen's stormy steep, Or bid the fancy cease to sleep,
That once could soar on pinion free, And dream I was not borne to weep; O then I'd wake my harp for thee.
And now 'tis only friendship's call,
That bids my slumbering lyre awake,
It long hath slept in sorrow's hall,
Again that slumber it must seek;
Not even the light of beauty's cheek,
Or blue eye beaming kind and free, Can bid its mournful numbers speak; Then lady, ask no lay from me.
Yet if on Desmond's mountain wild,
By glens I love, or ocean cave,
Nature once more should own her child,
And give the strength that once she gave;
If he who lights my path should save
And what I was I yet may be ;
Then lady, by green Erin's wave,
I'll gladly wake my harp for thee.
Hours like those I spent with you,
So bright, so passing and so few,
May never bless me more,-farewell!
My heart can feel but dare not tell,
The rapture of those hours of light,
Thus snatched from sorrow's cheerless night.
"Tis not thy cheek's soft blended hue;
"Tis not thine eye of heavenly blue;
'Tis not the radiance of thy brow,
That thus would win or charm me now,
It is thy heart's warm light that glows,
Like sun-beams on December snows.
It is thy wit that flashes bright,
As lightning on a stormy night,
Illuming even the clouds that roll
Along the darkness of my soul,
And bidding with an Angel's voice,
The heart that knew no joy,-rejoice.
Too late we met,-too soon we part,
Yet dearer to my soul thou art;
Than some whose love has grown with years,
Smiled with my smile, and wept my tears;
Farewell! but absent thou shalt seem,
The vision of some heavenly dream,
Too bright on child of earth to dwell;
It must be so, my friend farewell.
The night was still,--the air was balm,
Soft dews around were weeping;
No whisper rose o'er ocean's calm,
Its waves in light were sleeping,
With MARY on the beach I stray'd;
The stars beam'd joy above me ;
I prest her hand and said, "sweet maid
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