But thy form is ever near me,
Though I wander far away;
Like a star of hope to cheer me
With its soft and glad'ning ray,
And when my spirit ponders
On each passing scene of pain,
That light around me wanders,
And calms my soul again.
HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEE, TOM
MOORE.
[LORD BYRON.]
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But ere I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!
Here's a sigh for those I love,
And a smile for those I hate ;
And, whatever sky's above,
Here's a heart for any fate.
Though the ocean roars around me,
It still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were it the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirits fell,
'Tis to thee that I would drink !
In that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be "Peace to thee and thine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore."
THE WAVING GREENWOOD TREE.
Now by the waving greenwood tree
We merry, merry warriors roam;
Careless and jovial, ever free,
We hail our native home!
We roam beneath fair Cynthia's light,
Or, hiding in the shade,
Telling soft tales of true delight
To some lovely woodland maid.
Now by the waving, &c.
Now by the waving greenwood tree
We merry, merry warriors roam ;
Careless and jovial, ever free,
We hail our native home!
We quaff not, we quaff not the red, red wine,
But our nut-brown ale is good;
For the song and the dance of the great we ne'er pine,
While the rough winds are our choristers rude.
WHEN FORCED FROM DEAR HEBE
WHEN forced from dear Hebe to go,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
And I thought, but it might not be so,
She was sorry to see me depart;
She cast such a languishing view,
My path I could scarcely discern,
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
I thought she might like to retire
To the grove I had labour'd to rear ;
For whatever I heard her admire,
I hasten'd and planted it there.
Her voice such a pleasure conveys,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she says,
I'm sure still to love her the more.
And now ere I haste to the plain,
Come, shepherds, and talk of her ways:
I could lay down my life for the swain
That would sing me a song in her praise;
While he sings may the maids of the town
Come flocking and listen awhile;
Nor on him let Hebe once frown,-
But I cannot allow her to smile.
To see, when my charmer goes by,
Some hermit peep out of his cell :
How he thinks of his youth with a sigh,
How fondly he wishes her well!
On him she may smile if she please,
"Twill warm the cold bosom of age;
But cease, gentle Hebe, oh ! cease,-
Such softness will ruin the sage.
I've stole from no flow'rets that grow
To paint the dear charms 1 approve,
For what can a blossom bestow,
So sweet, so delightful, as love?
I sing in a rustical way,
A shepherd and one of the throng; Yet, Hebe approves of my lay;
Go poets, and envy my song.
AROUND the face of blue-eyed Sue
Did auburn ringlets curl;
Her coral lips seem'd dipped in dew;
Her teeth two rows of pearl.
Joe of the Bell, whose wine they said
Was new in cask as he in trade,
Espoused this nonpareil.
"You keep the bar," says Joe, "my dear,
But be obliging, Sue, d'ye hear,
And prove to all who love good cheer
They're welcome to the Bell."
A London rider chanced to slip
Behind the bar to dine,
And found sweet Susan's yielding lip
Much mellower than her wine.
As Joe stept in, he stampt, and swore
He'd dust his jacket well;
"Hey-day!" says Sue, "what's this, I trow!
You bade me be obliging, Joe !—
I'm only proving to the beau
He's welcome to the Bell."
I'LL follow thee, I'll follow thee,
Wherever thou mayst go,
To the land of burning sunshine
Or the realm of winter snow;
For the world is not as boundless
As a woman's heart can be,
So, wherever thou mayst wander,
I will follow, follow thee !
I'll follow thee, I'll follow thee,
Whatever thou may'st prize,
Of fame or grandeur to be won
Beneath the alien skies;
For the world owns no such treasure
As a faithful heart can be,
Then, wherever thou may'st wander,
I will follow, follow thee!
I'll follow thee, I'll follow thee,
Whatever thou mayst bear,
For there cannot be a danger
That a true heart would not share;
Then whate'er of joy or sorrow
In thy future lot may be
Love shall haunt you like your shadow,
For I'll follow, follow thee!
THE SAILOR'S GRAVE.
[ELIZA COOK.]
OUR bark was out-far, far from land,
When the fairest of our gallant band
Grew sadly pale, and waned away
Like the twilight of an autumn day.
We watched him through long hours of pain;
But our cares were lost, our hopes were vain,
Death brought for him no coward alarm;
For he smiled as he died on a messmate's arm.
He had no costly winding-sheet,
But we placed a round shot at his feet;
And he slept in his hammock as safe and sound
As a king in his lawn shroud, marble-bound.
We proudly deck'd his funeral vest
With the English flag about his breast;
We gave him that as the badge of the brave,
And then be was fit for his sailor's grave.
Our voices broke our hearts turned weak-
Hot tears were seen on the brownest cheek-
And a quiver play'd on the lips of pride,
As we lowered him down the ship's dark side.
A plunge-a splash-and our task was o'er;
The billows roll'd as they roll'd before;
But many a rude prayer hallowed the wave
That closed above the sailor's grave.
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