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!

66 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.

While the true heart pineth
Missing thy face.

Music is sorrowful

Since thou art gone, Sisters are mourning thee,

Come to thine own!

Hark! the home voices call

Back to thy rest;
Come to thy father's hall,
Thy mother's breast!

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

O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!'

O THOU breeze of spring!
Gladdening sea and shore,
Wake the woods to sing,

Wake my heart no more!
Streams have felt the sighing
Of thy scented wing,
"Let each fount replying

Hail thee, breeze of spring,
Once more!

'Set to music by John Lodge, Esq.

O'er long buried flowers

Passing not in vain,

Odours in soft showers

Thou hast brought again.
-Let the primrose greet thee,
Let the violet pour

Incense forth to meet thee

Wake my heart no more!
No more!

From a funeral urn

Bower'd in leafy gloom,
Even thy soft return

Calls not song or bloom.
Leave my spirit sleeping
Like that silent thing;
Stir the founts of weeping
There, O breeze of spring,
No more!

COME TO ME, DREAMS OF HEAVEN.

COME to me, dreams of heaven!

My fainting spirit bear

On your bright wings, by morning given, Up to celestial air.

Away, far, far away,

From bowers by tempests riven,

Fold me in blue, still, cloudless day,
O blessed dreams of heaven!

While the true heart pineth
Missing thy face.

Music is sorrowful

Since thou art gone, Sisters are mourning thee,

Come to thine own!

Hark! the home voices call

Back to thy rest;
Come to thy father's hall,
Thy mother's breast!

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

O THOU BREEZE OF SPRING!1

O THOU breeze of spring!
Gladdening sea and shore,
Wake the woods to sing,

Wake my heart no more!
Streams have felt the sighing
Of thy scented wing,
"Let each fount replying

Hail thee, breeze of spring,
Once more!

Set to music by John Lodge, Esq.