'Twas a new feeling-something more
Than we had dar'd 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.
She felt my lips' impassion'd touch; 'Twas the first time I dar'd 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.
Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I prest 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.
Oh! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny, dearest for thee I'd sigh;
And ev'ry smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.
But between love, and wine, and sleep,
So busy a life I'd live,
That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give. Then bid me not to despair and pine, Fanny, dearest of all the dears!
The love that's order'd to bathe in wine, Would be sure to take cold in tears.
Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny, dearest! thy image lies;
But, oh! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimm'd too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,
Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright,
That I keep my eyebeam clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow-
Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain ;
If sunshine cannot dissolve the snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.
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?
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?
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?
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?
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?
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 she lov'd so much,
And here's the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she us❜d to touch-
Oh! how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh;
Where's the hand to wreath them?
Songs around neglected lie; ̧
Where's the lip to breathe them?
Here's the bower she lov'd so much,
And here's the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she us'd to touch-
Oh! how that touch enchanted!
Spring may bloom, but she we lov'd
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness!
Time, that once so fleeting mov'd,
Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she stray'd,
Days were moments near her;
Heav'n ne'er form'd a brighter maid,
Nor Pity wept a dearer !
Here's the bower, &c.
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 pray'r. -'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.
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