ELOISE'S SONG.

H! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary,

Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam;

Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,
She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home.

I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle,
As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle;
Now I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,
"Stay thy boat on the lake, dearest Henry, I come."

High swell'd in her bosom the throb of affection,
As lightly her form bounded over the lea,
And arose in her mind every dear recollection,

"I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee."
How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing,
When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving,
And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving,
Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee !

Oh! dark lower'd the clouds on that terrible eve,

And the moon dimly gleam'd through the tempested air;
Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?

Oh! how could false hope rend a bosom so fair?
Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving,
O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving;
But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving,
In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

[From St. Irvyne, or The Rosicrucian, chapter ix. :-"How soft is that strain!' cried Nempere, as she concluded. Ah!' said Eloise, sighing deeply; 'tis a melancholy song; my poor brother wrote it, I remember, about ten days before he died. 'Tis a gloomy tale concerning him."]

H

MARIANNE'S SONG.

OW stern are the woes of the desolate mourner,

As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier,

As enanguish'd he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
And drops, to perfection's remembrance, a tear;
When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming,
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,

Or, if lull'd for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.

Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,
Or summer succeed to the winter of death?
Rest awhile, helpless victim, and Heaven will save
The spirit that faded away with the breath.

Eternity points in its amaranth bower,

Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lower,
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower,

When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

[From St. Irvyne :-"It brought with it the remembrance of a song which Marianne had composed soon after her brother's death. She sang, though in a low voice."]

Remember me, then!-O! remember,

My calm, light love;

Though bleak as the blasts of November
My life may prove,

That life will, though lonely, be sweet,

If its brightest enjoyment should be

A smile and kind word when we meet,
And a place in thy memory.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

[From The Collegians, or the Colleen Bawn, chap. xxi. :-" Hardress listened with an almost painful emotion to the song which the fair performer executed with an ease and feeling that gave to the words an effect beyond that to which they might themselves have pretended."]

CAPTAIN HAZLEBY'S SONG.

HE colonel has married Miss Fanny,

And quitted the turf and high play;
They're gone down to live with his granny,
In a sober and rational way.

Folks in town were all perfectly scared

When they heard of this excellent plan,
For nobody there was prepared

To think him a sensible man.

For Fanny two years he'd been sighing,
And Fanny continued stone-cold;
Till he made her believe he was dying,

And Fan thought herself growing old.

So, one very fine night, at a fête,

When the moon shone as bright as it can,

She found herself left tête-à-tête,

With this elegant sensible man.

There are minutes which lovers can borrow
From Time, ev'ry one worth an age;

Equivalents each to the sorrow

They sweetly combine to assuage.

'Twas so on this heart-stirring eve;

He explained ev'ry hope, wish, and plan;

She sighed, and began to believe

The colonel a sensible man.

He talked about roses and bowers,

Till he dimmed her bright eye with a tear;
For though "Love cannot live upon flowers,"
Miss Fan had four thousand a year:

'Twas useless, she felt, to deny,

So she used her bouquet for a fan;
And averting her head, with a sigh,

Gave her heart to the sensible man.

[From Jack Brag, chap. xx., where Hazleby says of the lines: Dickinson, who, although I say it, who should not, is perhaps, in song-writing, superior to any man of his métier I ever met with. his muse."]

THEODORE HOOK.

"They are written by my man French blacking and fashionable He makes a mint of money by