Viver en Cadinas.

FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

I.

FROM life without freedom, oh! who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?
Hark!-hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,
The death-song of tyrants and dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding-oh! fly to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.
From life without freedom, oh! who would not fly? ›
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?

II.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains !
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.

And oh! even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not-at least we shall find her in heaven.
In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.

HERE'S THE BOWER.

I.

HERE'S the bower she loved so much,
And the tree she planted;

Here's the harp she used to touch

Oh! how that touch enchanted!

Roses now unheeded sigh;

Where's the hand to wreathe them?

Songs around neglected lie,

Where's the lip to breathe them?

Here's the bower she loved so much,
And the tree she planted;

Here's the harp she used to touch

Oh! how that touch enchanted!

II.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness!

Time, that once so fleetly moved,
Now hath lost its fleetness.

Years were days, when here she stray'd,
Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er form'd a brighter maid,
Nor Pity wept a dearer!

Here's the bower she loved so much,
And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch-
Oh! how that touch enchanted!

HOLY BE THE PILGRIM'S SLEEP.

HOLY be the Pilgrim's sleep,

From the dreams of terror free;

And may all, who wake to weep, Rest to-night as sweet as he! Hark! hark! did I hear a vesper swell!

No, no-it is my loved Pilgrim's prayer:

No, no-'twas but the convent bell,
That tolls upon the midnight air.

Holy be the Pilgrim's sleep!
Now, now again the voice I hear;
Some holy man is wand'ring near.

O Pilgrim! where hast thou been roaming?
Dark is the way, and midnight's coming.
Stranger, I've been o'er moor and mountain,
To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain.
And, Pilgrim, say, where art thou going?
Dark is the way, the winds are blowing.
Weary with wand'ring, weak, I falter,
To breathe my vows at Agnes' altar.
Strew, then, oh! strew his bed of rushes;
Here he shall rest till morning blushes.

Peace to them whose days are done,
Death their eyelids closing;
Hark! the burial-rite's begun-

"Tis time for our reposing.

Here, then, my pilgrim's course is o'er :

"Tis my master! 'tis my master! Welcome here once

more;

Come to our shed-all toil is over;

Pilgrim no more, but knight and lover.

I CAN NO LONGER STIFLE.

I.

I can no longer stifle,
How much I long to rifle
That little part

They call the heart

Of you, you lovely trifle !
You can no longer doubt it,
So let me be about it;
Or on my word,

And by the Lord,
I'll try to do without it.

II.

This pretty thing's as light, Sir,

As any paper kite, Sir,

And here and there,

And God knows where,

She takes her wheeling flight, Sir.

Us lovers, to amuse us,

Unto her tail she nooses;

There, hung like bobs

Of straw, or nobs,

She whisks us where she chuses.

I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.

I.

I SAW the moon rise clear

O'er hills and vales of snow, Nor told my fleet rein-deer The track I wish'd to go. But quick he bounded forth; For well my rein-deer knew I've but one path on earth

The path which leads to you.

II.

The gloom that winter cast
How soon the heart forgets!
When summer brings, at last,
The sun that never sets.
So dawn'd my love for you;
Thus chasing every pain,
Than summer sun more true,
"Twill never set again.

JOYS THAT PASS AWAY.

I.

Joys that pass away like this,
Alas! are purchased dear,

If every beam of bliss

Is follow'd by a tear.

Fare thee well! oh, fare thee well!
Soon, too soon thou hast broke the spell.
Oh! I ne'er can love again

The girl whose faithless art

Could break so dear a chain,

And with it break my heart.

II.

Once, when truth was in those eyes,

How beautiful they shone;

But now that lustre flies,

For truth, alas! is gone.

Fare thee well! oh, fare thee well!
How I've loved my hate shall tell.
Oh! how lorn, how lost would prove
Thy wretched victim's fate,

If, when deceived in love,

He could not fly to hate.

LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

I.

LIGHT Sounds the harp when the combat is overWhen heroes are resting, and joy is in bloomWhen laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

But, when the foe returns,
Again the hero burns;

High flames the sword in his hand once more;
The clang of mingling arms

Is then the sound that charms,

And brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets roar. Oh! then comes the harp, when the combat is overWhen heroes are resting, and joy is in bloomWhen laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

III.

Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,
Lay lull'd on the white arm of Beauty to rest-
When round his rich armour the myrtle hung twining,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
But, when the battle came,

The hero's eye breathed flame :
Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;
While to his wakening ear

No other sounds were dear,

But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.
But then came the light harp, when danger was ended,
And Beauty once more lull'd the War-God to rest;
When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.

LITTLE MARY'S EYE.

I.

LITTLE Mary's eye

Is roguish, and all that, Sir;

But her little tongue

Is quite too full of chat, Sir.

Since her eye can speak

Enough to tell her blisses,

If she stir her tongue,

Why-stop her mouth with kisses!

Oh! the little girls,

Wily, warm, and winning;

When angels tempt us to it,

Who can keep from sinning?