An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain ;
Oh, give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again!
The birds singing gaily, that come at my call:-
Give me these, and peace of mind far dearer than all.
Home, home! &c.
HARK! THE CONVENT-BELLS ARE RINGING.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY. The music by ALEXANDER LEE.
HARK! the convent-bells are ringing,
And the nuns are sweetly singing;
Holy Virgin, hear our prayer!
See the novice comes to sever
Every worldly tie for ever;
Take, oh, take her to your care!
Still radiant gems are shining,
Her jet-black locks entwining;
And her robes around her flowing
With many tints are glowing,
But all earthly rays are dim.
Splendours brighter
While thus we chant our vesper-hymn.
Now the lovely maid is kneeling,
With uplifted eyes appealing;
Holy Virgin, hear our prayer!
See the abbess, bending o'er her,
Breathes the sacred vow before her;
Take, oh, take her to your care!
Her form no more possesses
Those dark luxuriant tresses.
The solemn words are spoken,
Each earthly tie is broken,
And all earthly joys are dim.
Splendours brighter
While thus we chant our vesper-hymn.
ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE THEE WELL.
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLEY. The music by ALEXANDER LEE.
SHADES of ev'ning close not o'er us,
Leave our lonely bark awhile;
Morn, alas! will not restore us
Yonder dim and distant isle.
Still my fancy can discover
Sunny spots where friends may dwell;
Darker shadows round us hover,-
Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well!
"Tis the hour when happy faces
Smile around the taper's light;
Who will fill our vacant places?
Who will sing our songs to-night?
Through the mist that floats above us
Faintly sounds the vesper-bell,
Like a voice from those who love us,
Breathing fondly, Fare thee well;
When the waves are round me breaking,
As I pace the deck alone,
And my eye is vainly seeking
Some green leaf to rest upon;
When on that dear land I ponder,
Where my old companions dwell,
Absence makes the heart grow fonder-
Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well!
DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE.
DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager;
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.
In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.
The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent greenwood shade:
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.
Go! you may call it madness, folly-
You shall not chase my gloom away;
There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not if I could be gay.
Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure
That fills my bosom when I sigh,
You would not rob me of a treasure
Monarchs are too poor to buy!
From the "Lump of Gold; and other Poems," by CHARLES MACKAY. Music by FRANK MORI.
I LOVE my little native isle,
Mine emerald in a golden deep; My garden where the roses smile,
My vineyard where the tendrils creep. How sweetly glide the summer hours, When twilight shows her silver sheen; And youths and maids from all the bowers Come forth to play the Tambourine.
At noon the fisher spreads his sail
Upon our calm encircling sea;
The farmer labours in the vale,
Or tends his vine and orange-tree.
But soon as lingering sunset throws
O'er woods and fields a deeper green,
And all the west in crimson glows,
They gather to the Tambourine.
We love our merry native song,
Our moss-grown seats in lonely nooks, Our moonlight walks the beach along, For interchange of words and looks. When toil is done, and day is spent, Sweet is the dance with song between; The jest for harmless pleasure meant, And tinkle of the Tambourine.
My native isle, my land of peace-
My father's home, my mother's grave—
May evermore thy joys increase,
And plenty o'er thy corn-fields wave!
May storms ne'er vex thine ocean surf,
Nor war pollute thy valleys green;
Nor fail the dance upon thy turf,
Nor music of the Tambourine!!
THAT Song again! its wailing strain
Brings back the thoughts of other hours,
And forms I ne'er may see again,-
And brightens all life's faded flowers.
In mournful murmurs o'er mine ear
Remember'd echoes seem to roll,
And sounds I never more can hear,
Make music in my lonely soul.
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