Thy image, all ties, all affections expelling, Here lures me to fix my immutable dome, Thy bosom's the spot where my soul would be dwelling, And exile-dark exile, awaits me at home. Oh! when but of friendship the farewell is spoken, When the being we love, is the friend we adore, When the void in our hearts must be ever unsated, When the web we have burst can be woven no more! XXXIX. HOW ARDENTLY MY BOSOM GLOWS. AIR-My Nannie, O. How ardently my bosom glows The sweetness o' thy artless smile, Thy lips, sure seats o' sweet delight, Thy image in my heart I'll wear, Contentment's sun my day shall chear, As lang's thou'lt be my dearie, O. Nae will-o'-wisp's delusive blaze, Owre flow'ry lea wi' thee I'll rove; My cot shall be the seat o' love The pleasing scenes of nature gay, Of thy sweet charms, my dearie, O. XL. THE MAID OF TRALLEE. Young Connel was gallant, young Ellen was fair, say, can the tongue a soft language impart, Persuasive and sweet, yet unknown to the heart? Can true love so soon with possession grow cold, did he sigh after glory or gold? Or say, For high wav'd the banner, he went o'er the sea, Fair Ellen, sweet Ellen, fair Ellen O'Reily, That cheek where the roses and lilies were spread, Now boasts but the lily, the roses are fled; That eye, whose bright glance the heart's raptures reveal'd, Now dim with a tear, no more lustre shall yield; And broken with sighs, now for ever must be XLI. I COME IN THE MORN*. Flora's Song. I come in the morn, I come in the hour In thy beauty's pride Thou wilt rest to-night by Flora's side. *. For the better understanding of this song, it may be necessary to remark, that the Western Islanders entertain a tradition, that, previous to the death of any young and remarkably beautiful bride among them, an apparition, resembling a mermaid, is always observed. This phantom they distin guish by the name of Flora, or the spirit of the green isle, and concur in affirming that it made its appearance immediately before the death of the late much-lamented Princess Charlotte of Wales. Whatever credit may be due to the assertion, or even to the fancy on which it is founded, the song itself possesses considerable merit, and is not unworthy the mournful occasion which The eye I touch must be soft and blue And the spirit within as pure and bright As the stream that leaps among tufts of roses, By thy true-love's side, To-morrow a shroud his hope shall hide. it is meant to commemorate. The following stanzas, which we have placed under the note, are, in the original, prefixed to the song, and serve very properly as a useful introduction, by solemnizing our minds for the mournful dirge. A voice said from the silver sea, "Woe to thee, Green Isle !-woe to thee !". And the long echoes answer'd, "WOE!" The Warden from his tow'r looks round, Each to the shore a silver sound, The spirit of the Isle is singing. In depths which man hath never found! |