There comes a time.

German Air.

There comes a time, a dreary time,
To him whose heart hath flown
O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime,
And made each flow'r its own.

Tis when his soul must first renounce
Those dreams so bright, so fond-
Oh, then's the time to die at once,
For life has nought beyond.

There comes a time, a dreary time,
To him whose heart hath flown
O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime,
And made each flower its own.

When sets the sun on Afric's shore,
That instant all is night,

And so should life at once be o'er,
When Love withdraws his light.

Nor, like our northern day, gleam on
Through twilight's dim delay-

The cold remains of lustre gone,
Of fire, long pass'd away.

Oh! there comes a time, a dreary time, To him whose heart hath flown

O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime, And made each flower its own.

When Love was a child.

When Love was a child, and went idling round
'Mong flowers the whole summer's day,
One morn in the valley a bower he found,
So sweet, it allur'd him to stay.

O'er head from the trees hung a garland fair,

A fountain ran darkly beneath;

'Twas pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there, Love knew it, and jump'd at the wreath.

But Love didn't know, and at his weak years
What urchin was likely to know?

That sorrow had made of her own salt tears,
That fountain which murmur'd below.

He caught at the wreath but with too much haste,
As boys, when impatient, will do ;

It fell in those waters of briny taste,
And the flowers were all wet through.

Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day,
And though it all sunny appears

With pleasure's own lustre, each leaf, they say,
Still tastes of the fountain of tears.

Say, what shall be our sport to-day?

Say, what shall be our sport to-day,

There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air, Too bright, too bold, too high, too gay, For spirits like mine to dare!

"Tis like the returning bloom,

Of those days, alas, gone by,

When I lov'd, each hour, I scarce knew whom, And was blest I scarce knew why.

Ay, those were days, when life had wings,
And flew, oh flew, so wild a height,
That like the lark that sun-ward springs,
'Twas giddy with too much light!

And, though of some plumes bereft,
With that sun, too nearly set,

I've enough of light and wing still left,
For a few gay soarings yet.

Bright be thy dreams.

Bright be thy dreams, may all thy weeping
Turn into smiles, while those art sleeping!

Those, by death or seas remov'd, Friends who in thy spring-time knew thee, All thou'st ever priz'd or lov'd, In dreams come smiling to thee!

There may the child whose love lay deepest, Dearest of all, come, while thou sleepest; Still the same, no charm forgot, Nothing lost that life had given;

Or, if chang'd, but chang'd to what, Thou❜lt find her yet in heaven.

Go then-'tis vain.

Go then 'tis vain to hover

Thus round a hope that's dead;

At length my dream is over

'Twas sweet-'twas false-'tis fled.

Farewell, since nought it moves thee
Such truth as mine to see;
Some one, who far less loves thee,
Perhaps more blest will be.

Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness

New life around me shed.

Farewell, false heart, whose lightness

Now leaves me death instead.

Go now, those charms surrender

To some new lover's sigh,
One, who though far less tender,
May be more blest than I.

The crystal hunters.

O'er mountains, bright with snow and light,
We crystal hunters speed along,
While grots and caves and icy waves
Each instant echo to our song.
And when we meet with store of gems,
We grudge not kings their diadems.
O'er mountains bright, &c.

No lover half so fondly dreams
Of sparkles from his lady's eyes,
As we of those refreshing gleams,
That tell where deep the crystal lies;
Though next to crystal, we, too, grant,
That ladies' eyes may most enchant.
O'er mountains bright, &c.

Sometimes, when o'er the Alpine rose,
The golden sunset leaves his ray,

So like a gem the flow'ret glows,
We thither bend our headlong way.