TAKE HENCE THE BOWL.

Neapolitan Air.

1.

Take hence the bowl; though beaming

Brightly as bowl e'er shone,
Oh! it but sets me dreaming

Of days, of nights now gone.
There, in its clear reflection,

As in a wizard's glass,
Lost hopes and dead affection,

Like shades, before me pass.

II.

nibermber

jes,

t dies!

Each cup I drain brings hither

Some friend who once sat by~
Bright lips, too bright to wither,

Warm hearts, too warm to die!
Till, as the dream comes o'er me

Of those long vanish'd years,
Then, then the cup before me

Seems turning all to tears.

FAREWELL, THERESA !

Venetian Air.

1.

FAREWELL, Theresa ! that cloud which over

Yon moon this moment gathering we see, Shall scarce from her pure orb have pass’d, ere thy lover

Swift o'er the wide wave shall wander from thee.

II.
Long, like that dim cloud, I've hung around thee,

Dark’ning thy prospects, saddning thy brow; With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee;

Oh! think how changed, love, how changed art thou
now!

III.
But here I free thee: like one awaking

From fearful slumber, this dream thou'lt tell ;
The bright moon her spell too is breaking,

Past are the dark clouds; Theresa, oh farewell!

HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS.

Savoyard Air.

I.
How oft, when watching stars grow pale,

And round me sleeps the moonlight scene,
To hear a flute through yonder vale

I from my casement lean. “Oh! come, my love!” each note it utters seems to say, “Oh! come, my love! the night wears fast away!"

No, ne'er to mortal ear

Can words, though warm they be,
Speak Passion's language half so clear

As do those notes to me!

II.
Then quick my own light lute I seek,

And strike the chords with loudest swell,
And, though they nought to others speak,

He knows their language well.
I

come, my love !” each sound they utter seems to say, “ I come, my love! thine, thine till break of day.”

Oh! weak the power of words,

The hues of painting dim,
Compared to what those simple chords

Then say and paint to him.

WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE.

German Air.

J.

When the first summer bee

O'er the young rose shall hover,

Then, like that gay rover,

I'll come to thee. He to flowers, I to lips, full of sweets to the brimWhat a meeting, what a meeting for me and him!

II.

Then, to every bright tree

In the garden he'll wander,

While I, oh! much fonder,

Will stay with thee. In search of new sweetness through thousands he'l rum, While I find the sweetness of thousands in one.

THOUGH TIS ALL BUT A DREAM.

French Air.

1. Though 'tis all but a dream at the best,

And still when happiest soonest o'er,
Yet, even in a dream, to be bless'd

Is so sweet, that I ask for no more.
The bosom that opes with earliest hopes,

The soonest finds those hopes untrue,
As flowers that first in spring-time burst
The earliest wither too !

Ay—'tis all but a dream, etc.

II.
By friendship we oft are deceived,

And find the love we clung to past;
Yet friendship will still be believed,

And love trusted on to the last.
The web in the leaves the spider weaves

Is like the charm Hope hangs o'er men ; Though often she sees it broke by the breeze, She spins the bright tissue again.

Ay—'tis all but a dream, etc.