And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love, In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour, At twilight so often we've roam'd through the dew, There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender, And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you. 53 But, tho' they were even more bright than the queen Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea, As I never these fair young celestials have seen, Why-this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station, Heav'n knows we have plenty on earth we could spare. Oh, think what a world we should have of it here, And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me, Oh for the swords of former time! Air-Name unknown. Oh for the swords of former time! Were those which virtue gave him. Oh for the swords of former time! etc: Oh for the kings who flourish'd then! The throne was but the center Oh for the kings who flourish'd then! etc. A Canadian boat song. WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. 54 Et remigem cantus hortatur.-Quintilian. Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. Why should we yet our sail unfurl? Utáwas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Ne'er ask the hour. Air-My husband's a journey to Portugal gone. Ne'er ask the hour, what is it to us How time deals out his treasures? The golden moments lent us thus, Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. If counting them over could add to their blisses, But moments of joy, are like Lesbia's kisses, Then fill the cup, what is it to us How time his circle measures? The fairy hours we call up thus, Obey no wand but Pleasure's! Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours, A dial, by way of warning; But Joy lov'd better to gaze on the sun, As long as his light was glowing, Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on, Sail on, sail on. Air-The Humming of the Ban. Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark- More sad than those we leave behind. Sail on, sail on-through endless space Through calm-through tempest-stop no more; The stormiest sea's a resting place To him who leaves such hearts on shore. Or, if some desert land we meet, Where never yet false-hearted men Profan'd a world, that else were sweetThen rest thee, bark, but not till then. The Parallel. Air-1 would rather than Ireland. Yes, sad one of Sion-if closely resembling, 55 |