Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave that we danc'd on at morning ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light. Oh! who would not welcome that moment's returning, When passion first wak'd a new life thro' his frame, And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in burning, Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame! Fill the bumper fair! Air-Bob and Joan. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Wit's electric flame Ne'er so swiftly passes As when through the frame It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray From the starr'd dominions: So we, sages, sit, And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning, From the heav'n of wit Draw down all its lightning! Fill the bumper fair! etc. Wouldst thou know what first Made our souls inherit This ennobling thirst For wine's celestial spirit! It chanc'd upon that day, The living fires that warm us. Fill the bumper fair! etc. The careless youth, when up But oh, his joy! when round Some drops were in the bowl, Hath such spells to win us- O'er that flame within us. The farewell to my Harp. Air-New Langolee. Dear harp of my country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, 50 When proudly, my own island harp! I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That e'en in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go-sleep, with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own. My gentle harp! Air-The Coina, or Dirge, My gentle harp! once more I waken And yet, since last thy chord resounded, Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure, As ill would suit the swan's decline! Invoke thy breath for freedom's strains, When e'en the wreaths in which I dress thee Are sadly mix'd-half flowers, half chains! But come—if yet thy frame can borrow As slow our ship. Air-The Girl I left behind me. As slow our ship her foamy track So turn our hearts, where'er we rove, |