THE EXILE.
Night waneth fast, the morning star
Saddens with light the glimmering sea,
Whose waves shall soon to realms afar
Waft me from hope, from love, and thee.
Coldly the beam from yonder sky
Looks o'er the waves that onward stray;
But colder still the stranger's eye
To him whose home is far away
Oh, not at hour so chill and bleak,
Let thoughts of me come o'er thy breast;
But of the lost one think and speak,
When summer suns sink calm to rest.
So, as I wander, Fancy's dream
Shall bring me o'er the sunset seas,
Thy look in every melting beam,
Thy whisper in each dying breeze.
THE FANCY FAIR.
Come, maids and youths, for here we sell
All wondrous things of earth and air;
Whatever wild romancers tell,
Or poets sing, or lovers swear,
You'll find at this our Fancy Fair.
Here eyes are made like stars to shine,
And kept for years in such repair,
That even when turned of thirty-nine,
They'll hardly look the worse for wear,
If bought at this our Fancy Fair.
We've lots of tears for bards to shower,
And hearts that such ill usage bear,
That, tho' they're broken every hour,
They'll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear,
If purchased at our Fancy Fair.
As fashions change in every thing,
We've goods to suit each season's air,
Eternal friendships for the spring,
And endless loves for summer wear,--
All sold at this our Fancy Fair.
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