Let fate do her worst; there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;

And which come, in the night time of sorrow and care,

To bring back the features that joy us'd to wear. Long, long by my heart with such memories fill'd!-

Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd-

You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will;

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.

AIR-" Yellow Wat and the Fox."

Ön! doubt me not-the season
Is o'er, when folly made me rove,
And now the vestal Reason

Shall watch the fire awak'd by Love.
Although this heart was early blown,

And fairest hands disturb'd the tree, They only shook some blossoms down, Its fruit has all been kept for thee. Then doubt me not-the season

Is o'er, when folly made me rove, And now the vestal Reason

Shall watch the fire awak'd by Love.

And though my lute no longer
May sing of passion's ardent spell,
Oh! trust me, all the stronger

I feel the bliss I do not tell.

The bee through many a garden roves,
And sings his lay of courtship o'er,
But, when he finds the flower he loves,
He settles there and hums no more.
Then doubt me not-the season

Is o'er, when folly kept me free;
And now the vestal Reason

Shall guard the flame awak'd by thee.

You remember Ellen,* our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she blest her humble lot,
When the stranger William had made her his
bride,

And love was the light of their lowly cot. Together they toil'd through winds and rains, 'Till William at length in sadness said,

"We must seek our fortune on other plains,"

Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

This balled was suggested by a well known and interesting story, told of a certain noble family in England

176

I

They roam'd a long and a weary way,
Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease,
When now, at close of one stormy day,

They see a proud castle among the trees.
"To night," said the youth, "we'll shelter

there:

The wind blows cold, the hour is late!"
So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,
And the porter bow'd, as they pass'd the
gate.

"Now, welcome, Lady!" exclaim'd the youth,— "This castle is thine, and these dark woods

all!"

She believ'd him wild, but his words were truth,
For ELLEN is Lady of Rosna hall!

And dearly the lord of Rosna loves

What WILLIAM the stranger woo'd and wed; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves, Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed.

I'D MOURN THE HOPES THAT LEAVE ME.
AIR- The Rose tree."

I'D mourn the hppes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep when friends decieve me,

Hadst thou been like them untrue.

But while I've thee before me,

With heart so warm, and eyes so bright,

No clouds can linger o'er me,

That smile turns them all to light,

'Tis not in fate to harm me,
While fate leaves thy love to me;
"Tis not in joy to charm me,

Unless joy be shar'd with thee,
One minute's dream about thee
Were worth a long, and endless year,
Of waking bliss without thee,
My own love, my only dear!

And, though the hope be gone, love,
That long sparkled o'er our way,
Oh! we shall journey on, love,
More safely without its ray.
Far better lights shall win me,
Along the path I've yet to roam ;
The mind that burns within me,
And pure smiles from thee at home.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted
The traveller, at first goes out,

He feels awhile benighted,

And loooks round in fear and doubt.

But soon, the prospect clearing,
But cloudless star-light on he treads,
And thinks no lamp so cheering
As that light which heaven sheds!

COME O'ER THE SEA.

AIR" Cuishlih ma chree."*

COME o'er the sea,
Maiden! with me,

Mine through sunshine, storm, and snow
Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same where e'er it goes. Let fate frown on, so we love and part not; 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where tho art not!

Then come o'er the sea,
Maiden! with me,

Come wherever the wild wind blows,
Seasons may roll,

But the true soul
Burns the same, where e'er it goes.

Is not the sea

Made for the free,

The following are some of the original word of this wild and singular air;-they contain rathe an odd assortment of grievances.

Cuishlih ma chree,

Did you but see

How, the rogue, he did serve me:-Bis.
He broke my pitcher, he spilt my water,
He kiss'd ny wife, and married my daughter
Oh! Cuishlih ma chree! &c.