Then say not thou this Alpine song

is gayIt comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay, Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath Most warms the surface, feel most sad beneath. The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears, And passion's pow'r can never lend the glow Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.

THE RUSSIAN LOVER.

FLEETLY o'er the moonlight snows
Speed we to my lady's bow'r;
Swift our sledge as lightning goes,

Nor shall stop till morning's hour.
Bright, my steed, the northern star
Lights us from yon jewell'd skies;
But, to greet us, brighter far,

Morn shall bring my lady's eyes.

Lovers, lull'd in sunny bow'rs,

Sleeping out their dream of time,
Know not half the bliss that's ours,
In this snowy, icy clime.

Like yon star that livelier gleams

From the frosty heavens around,
Love himself the keener beams

When with snows of

coyness

crown'd.

Fleet then on, my merry steed,

Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale; What can match a lover's speed?

See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale! Brightly hath the northern star

Lit us from yon radiant skies; But, behold, how brighter far Yonder shine my lady's eyes!

FANNY, DEAREST !

YES! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.

But, between love, and wine, and sleep,
So busy a life I live,

That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,
Fanny, dearest of all the dears!

The Love that's order'd to bathe in wine,
Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny, dearest, thy image lies;
But, ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimm'd too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,

Who view it through sorrow's tear;

And 'tis but to see thee truly bright

That I keep my eye-beams clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow-
Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;
If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.

SUSAN.

YOUNG Love liv'd once in an humble shed,

Where roses breathing,

And woodbines wreathing

Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourish'd,

For young Hope nourish'd

The infant buds with beams and showers; But lips, though blooming, must still be fed, And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas! that Poverty's evil eye

Should e'er come hither,

Such sweets to wither!

The flowers laid down their heads to die,

And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.

She came one morning,

Ere Love had warning,

And rais'd the latch, where the young god lay; "Oh ho!" said Love-" is it you? good by;" So he oped the window, and flew away!

TO SIGH, YET FEEL NO PAIN.

To sigh, yet feel no pain,

Το weep, yet scarce know why;

To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,

Then throw it idly by.

To kneel at many a shrine,

Yet lay the heart on none;

To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won.
This is love, faithless love,

Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,

Through life unchill'd, unmov'd, To love, in wintry age, the same As first in youth we lov'd;

To feel that we adore,

Ev'n to such fond excess,

That, though the heart would break with more,

It could not live with less.

This is love, faithful love,

Such as saints might feel above.

SPIRIT OF JOY, THY ALTAR LIES.

SPIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies

In youthful hearts that hope like mine;

And 'tis the light of laughing eyes,

That leads us to thy fairy shrine.

There if we find the sigh, the tear,

They are not those to sorrow known;
But breath so soft, and drops so clear,

That Bliss may claim them for her own.
Then give me, give me, while I weep,
The sanguine hope that brightens woe,
And teaches ev'n our tears to keep
The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child, who sees the dew of night
Upon the spangled hedge at morn,
Attempts to catch the drops of light,
But wounds his finger with the thorn.
Thus oft the brightest joys we seek,

Are lost, when touch'd, and turn'd to pain; The flush they kindled leaves the cheek,

The tears they waken long remain.

But give me, give me, &c. &c.

WHEN LEILA TOUCH'D THE LUTE.

WHEN Leila touch'd the lute,

Not then alone 'twas felt,

But, when the sounds were mute,
In memory still they dwelt.
Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers.

Ah, how could she, who stole

Such breath from simple wire,