Should some notes, we used to love

In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh how welcome breathes the strain !

Wakening thoughts that long have slept ; Kindling former smiles again,

In faded eyes that long have wept!

II.

Like the gale that sighs along

Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,

That once was heard in happier hours ;
Fill’d with balm, the gale sighs on,

Though the flowers have sunk in death ; So, when pleasure's dream is gone,

Its memory lives in Music's breath!

III.

Music!-oh! how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell! Why should feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? Friendship’s balmy words may feign,

Love's are even more false than they ;

Oh! 'tis only Music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.*

AIR.—The Sixpence.

I.

It is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept,

Through a life, by his loss all shaded ; 'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept,

When all lighter griefs have faded !

II.

Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, While it shines through our hearts, will improve

them;

* These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Madeira.

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For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,

When we think how he lived but to love them!
And, as buried saints have given perfume

To shrines where they've been lying,
So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom

From the image he left there in dying !

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

AIR.-Gage Fane.

I. 'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for

thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung

under the sea ; And who, often at eve, through the bright billow roved, To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

II.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to'weep, And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to steep, Till Heaven look’d, with pity, on true-love so warm, And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form!

1

Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheek smiled the

Same

While her sea-beauties gracefully curld 'round the

frame And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright

rings, Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings !*

IV.
Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been

known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay,
To be love, when I'm near thee, and grief when away!

DOT

* This thought was suggested by an ingenious design, prefixed to an ode upon St. Cecilia, published some years since, by Mr. Hudson of Dublin.