(FRENCH AIR.)
Hear me but once, while o'er the grave,
In which our Love lies cold and dead,
I count each flattering hope he gave
Of joys now lost and charms now fled.
Who could have thought the smile he wore
When first we met would fade away?
Or that a chill would e'er come o'er
Those eyes so bright thro' many a day?
Hear me but once, etc.
WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD
(SWEDISH AIR.)
When Love was a child, and went idling round,
'Mong flowers the whole summer's day,
One morn in the valley a bower he found,
So sweet, it allured him to stay.
O'erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair,
A fountain ran darkly beneath;--
'Twas Pleasure had hung up the flowerets there;
Love knew it, and jumped at the wreath.
But Love didn't know--and, at _his_ weak years,
What urchin was likely to know?--
That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears
The fountain that murmured below.
He caught at the wreath--but with too much haste,
As boys when impatient will do--
It fell in those waters of briny taste,
And the flowers were all wet through.
This garland he now wears night and day;
And, tho' it all sunny appears
With Pleasure's own light, each leaf, they say,
Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears.
SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO-DAY?
(SICILIAN AIR.
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