NATIONAL AIRS.

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No. II.

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LOVE AND HOPE.

Swiss Air.

I.

Ат

morn, beside yon summer sea,
Young Hope and Love reclined ;

But scarce had noon-tide come, when he
Into his bark leap'd smilingly,

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And left poor Hope behind.

II.

"I go," said Love," to sail awhile

"Across this sunny main ;"

And then so sweet his parting smile,

That Hope, who never dream'd of guile,

Believed he'd come again.

III.

She linger'd there till evening's beam

Along the waters lay,

And o'er the sands, in thoughtful dream, Oft traced his name, which still the stream As often wash'd away.

IV.

At length a sail appears in sight,

And tow'rd the maiden moves!

'Tis Wealth that comes, and gay and bright, His golden bark reflects the light,

But ah! it is not Love's.

V.

Another sail-'twas Friendship show'd
Her night-lamp o'er the sea;

And calm the light that lamp bestow'd:
But Love had lights that warmer glow'd,
And where, alas! was he?

VI.

Now fast around the sea and shore

The

Night threw her darkling chain,

sunny sails were seen no more,

Hope's morning dreams of bliss were o'er

Love never came again!

THERE COMES A TIME.

German Air.

I.

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.

"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, etc.

II.

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, etc.

MY HARP HAS ONE UNCHANGING THEME.

Swedish Air.

I.

My harp has one unchanging theme,

One strain that still comes o'er
Its languid chord, as 'twere a dream
Of joy that's now no more.
In vain I try, with livelier air,

To wake the breathing string;

That voice of other times is there,

And saddens all I sing.

II.

Breathe on, breathe on, thou languid strain,

Henceforth be all my own,

Though thou art oft so full of pain

Few hearts can bear thy tone.

Yet oft thou'rt sweet, as if the sigh,
The breath that Pleasure's wings

Gave out, when last they wanton'd by,
Were still upon thy strings.