CHORUS.

Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day!

We'll sing one song for my old Kentucky home,

For our old Kentucky home far away.

They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,
On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
On the bench by the old cabin door;
The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart,
With sorrow where all was delight;
The time has come, when the darkeys have to part,
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!
Weep no more, my lady, &c.

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,
Wherever the darkey may go;

A few more days, and the troubles all will end,
In the field where the sugar-cane grow;
A few more days to tote the weary load,
No matter it will never be light;

A few more days till we totter on the road,
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!
Weep no more, my lady, &c.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again :

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show !
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'T was not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee,
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe :

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet, O yet, thyself deceive not:

Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away;

--

When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou nevermore mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;

Pride which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee, by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now;

But 't is done; all words are idle, Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.

WHEN we two parted

In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss:

Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this!

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow;
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame :
I hear thy name spoken
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me-
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met:

In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?-
With silence and tears.

BYRON.

COME, LET US KISSE AND PARTE.

SINCE there's no helpe, come, let us kisse and parte,

Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, — yea, glad with all my hearte, That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free. Shake hands forever! - cancel all our vows; And when we meet at any time againe, Be it not seene in either of our brows, That we one jot of former love retaine. Now at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;

FAREWELL. THOU ART TOO DEAR. FAREWELL! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; My bonds in thee are all determinate.

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not
knowing,

Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter;
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

SHAKESPEARE.

AN EARNEST SUIT

TO HIS UNKIND MISTRESS NOT TO FORSAKE HIM.

AND wilt thou leave me thus ?
Say nay! say nay! for shame!
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and grame.
And wilt thou leave me thus ?

Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath loved thee so long,
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus ?
Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath given thee my heart,
Never for to depart,

Neither for pain nor smart? And wilt thou leave me thus ?

Say nay! say nav!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
And have no more pity
Of him that loveth thee?
Alas! thy cruelty!

And wilt thou leave me thus?

Say nay say nay !

SIR THOMAS WYAT

And must this parting be our very last?

Give me one look before my life be gone,

past.

Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this

One last fond look! and now repeat the

prayer."

Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;

YES! there are real mourners, -I have seen
A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene;
Attention (through the day) her duties claimed,
And to be useful as resigned she aimed;
Neatly she drest, nor vainly seemed t' expect
Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ;

But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,
She sought her place to meditate and weep;
Then to her mind was all the past displayed,
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid:
For then she thought on one regretted youth,
Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth;
In every place she wandered, where they 'd been,
And sadly-sacred held the parting scene,
Where last for sea he took his leave; that place
With double interest would she nightly trace!

Happy he sailed, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know,
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow :
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood.

His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek, And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak; For now he found the danger, felt the pain, With grievous symptoms he could not explain. He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message, - "Thomas, I must die; Would I could see my Sally, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, And gazing go! if not, this trifle take, And say, till death I wore it for her sake: Yes! I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow

on,

"Yes! I must die" - and hope forever fled. Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime

Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she prayed, to him his Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching
head:

She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer,
Apart she sighed alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.

One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think,

Yet said not so- "Perhaps he will not sink."
A sudden brightness in his look appeared,
A sudden vigor in his voice was heard ;
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;
Lively he seemed, and spake of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favorite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasured, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people, - death has made them dear.
He named his friend, but then his hand she prest,*
And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest.'
"I go," he said; but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the
sound;

Then gazed affrighted; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past!

She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved, - an offering of her love :
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,
Awake alike to duty and the dead;
She would have grieved, had friends presumed to

spare

The least assistance, 't was her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit:
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hours employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.

GEORGE CRABBE.