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THE BED OF HEATH.

SOLDIER, awake! the night is past;
Hear'st thou not the bugle's blast?
Feel'st thou not the day-spring's breath?
Rouse thee from thy bed of heath!

Arm, thou bold and strong!

Soldier, what deep spell hath bound thee?
Fiery steeds are neighing round thee;
Banners to the fresh wind play,-

Rise, and arm;-'tis day, 'tis day!

And thou hast slumber'd long.

"Brother, on the heathery lea
Longer yet my sleep must be;
Though the morn of battle rise,
Darkly night rolls o'er my eyes.

Brother, this is death!

"Call me not when bugles sound, Call me not when wine flows round; Name me but amidst the brave;

Give me but a soldier's grave

But my bed of heath!"

FAIRY SONG.

HAVE ye left the greenwood lone?
Are your steps for ever gone?
Fairy King and Elfin Queen,
Come ye to the sylvan scene,

From your dim and distant shore,

Never more?

Shall the pilgrim never hear
With a thrill of joy and fear,
In the hush of moonlight hours,
Voices from the folded flowers,
Faint sweet flute-notes as of yore,
Never more?

"Mortal! ne'er shall bowers of earth
Hear again our midnight mirth:
By our brooks and dingles green
Since unhallow'd steps have been,
Ours shall thread the forests hoar
Never more.

"Ne'er on earthborn lily's stem
Will we hang the dewdrop's gem;
Ne'er shall reed or cowslip's head
Quiver to our dancing tread,
By sweet fount or murmuring shore,
Never more!"

WHAT WOKE THE BURIED SOUND.

WHAT Woke the buried sound that lay
In Memnon's harp of yore?
What spirit on its viewless way

Along the Nile's green shore?

Oh! not the night, and not the storm,
And not the lightning's fire,

But sunlight's torch, the kind, the warm,
This, this awoke the lyre.

What wins the heart's deep chords to pour
Thus music forth on life?

Like a sweet voice prevailing o'er

The truant sounds of strife.-
Oh! not the conflict 'midst the throng,
Not e'en the trumpet's hour;

Love is the gifted and the strong,
To wake that music's power!

OH IF THOU WILT NOT GIVE THINE HEART.

OH! if thou wilt not give thine heart,

Give back mine own to me,'

Or bid thine image thence depart,

And leave me lone, but free.

1The first two lines of this song are literally translated from the German.

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Yet no! this mournful love of mine,

I would not from me cast!

Let me but dream 'twill win me thine
By its deep truth at last.

Can aught so fond, so faithful, live
Through years without reply?
Oh! if thine heart thou wilt not give,
Give me a thought, a sigh!

+ LOOK ON ME THUS NO MORE.

Ir is thy pity makes me weep,
My soul was strong before;
Silent, yet strong its griefs to keep
From vainly gushing o'er!

Turn from me, turn those gentle eyes-
In this fond gaze my spirit dies.

Look on me thus no more!

Too late that softness comes to bless,
My heart's glad life is o'er;
It will but break with tenderness,

Which cannot now restore !

The lyre-strings have been jarr'd too long, Winter hath touch'd the source of song! Look on me thus no more!

SING TO ME, GONDOLIER!

SING to me, Gondolier!

Sing words from Tasso's lay;
While blue, and still, and clear,
Night seems but softer day:
The gale is gently falling,
As if it paused to hear
Some strain the past recalling-
Sing to me, Gondolier!

"Oh, ask me not to wake
The memory of the brave;
Bid no high numbers break
The silence of the wave.
Gone are the noble-hearted,

Closed the bright pageants here;
And the glad song is departed

From the mournful Gondolier!”

O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS.'

O'ER the far blue mountains,

O'er the white sea foam, Come, thou long parted one, Back to thine home!

When the bright fire shineth,

Sad looks thy place,

'Set to music by the Author's sister.

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