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Her favourite birds, in feeble notes

Lament thy long delay,
And strain their little stammering throats

To charm thy blasts away.
Ah, Winter! calm thy cruel rage,

Release the struggling year ;
Thy power is past, decrepit sage !

Arise, and disappear.
The stars that graced thy splendid night

Are lost in warmer rays;
The sun, rejoicing in his might,

Unrolls celestial days.
Then why, usurping Winter, why

Still flags thy frozen wing?
Fly, unrelenting tyrant, fly,

And yield the year to Spring !

SONG.

ROUND Love's Elysian bowers

The fairest prospects rise ; There bloom the sweetest flowers,

There shine the purest skies; And joy and rapture gild awhile The cloudless heaven of Beauty's smile.

Round Love's deserted bowers

Tremendous rocks arise ;
Cold mildews blight the flowers,

Tornadoes rend the skies ;
And Pleasure's waning moon goes down
Amid the night of Beauty's frown.

Then youth, thou fond believer !

The wily siren shun :
Who trusts the dear deceiver

Will surely be undone !
When Beauty triumphs, ah ! beware
Her smile is hope !--her frown despair !

THE FOWLER.

A SONG. ALTERED FROM A GERMAN AIR, IN THE OPERA OR

“DIE ZAUBERFLOTE." SET TO MUSIC BY MOZART.

A CARELESS whistling lad am I,
On sky-lark wings my moments fly;
There's not a Fowler more renowned
In all the world for ten miles round !
Ah ! who like me can spread the net,
Or tune the merry flageolet?
Then why-oh, why should I repine,
Since all the roying birds are mine?

The thrush and linnet in the vale,
The sweet sequestered nightingale,
The bullfinch, wren, and wood-lark—all
Obey my summons when I call.
Oh! could I form some cunning snare
To catch the coy, coquetting fair,
In Cupid's filmy web so fine,
The pretty girls should all be mine!

When all were mine-among the rest,
I'd choose the lass I like the best;
And should my charming mate be kind,
And smile, and kiss me to my mind,
With her I'd tie the nuptial knot,
Make Hymen's cage of my poor cot,
And love away this fleeting life,
Like Robin Redbreast and his wife !

SONG.

WRITTEN FOR A CONVIVIAL SOCIETY, WHOSE MOTTO WAS

FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND TRUTH."

WHEN “Friendship, Love, and Truth” abound

Among a band of brothers,
The cup of joy goes gaily round,
Each shares the bliss of others !

Sweet roses grace the thorny way

Along this vale of sorrow :
The flowers that shed their leaves to-day

Shall bloom again to-morrow :
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!”

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On halcyon wings our moments pass,

Life's cruel cares beguiling ;
Old Time lays down his scythe and glass,

In gay good humour smiling :
With ermine beard and forelock gray,

His reverend front adorning,
H: looks like Winter turned to May,

Night softened into morning !
Huw grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy “Friendship, Love, and Truth!”

From these delightful fountains flow

Ambrosial rills of pleasure :--
Can man desire, can Heaven bestow,

A more resplendent treasure ?
Adorned with gems so richly bright,

We'll form a constellation,
Where every star, with modest light,

Shall gild his proper station.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy “Friendship, Love, and Truth !"

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SWEET the hour of tribulation

When the heart can freely sigh ; And the tear of resignation

Twinkles in the mournful eye.

Have you felt a kind emotion

Tremble through your troubled breast, Soft as Evening o'er the ocean, When she charms the waves to rest ?

Have you lost a friend, a brother?

Heard a father's parting breath? Gazed upon a lifelessmother,

Till she seemed to wake from death?

Have you felt a spouse expiring

In your arms before your view ? Watched the lovely soul retiring

From her eyes that broke on you ?

Did not grief then grow romantic,

Raving on remembered bliss ? Did you not, with fervour frantic,

Kiss the lips that felt no kiss ?

Yes! but when you had resigned her,

Life and you were reconciled ; Anna left-she left behind her

One, one dear, one only child.

But before the green moss peeping,

His poor mother's grave arrayed, In that grave the infant sleeping

On the mother's lap was laid.

Horror then, your heart congealing,

Chilled you with intense despair ; Can you call to mind the feeling ?

No! there was no feeling there !

From that gloomy trance of sorrow,

When you woke to pangs unknown, How unwelcome was the morrow!

For it rose on you alone.

Sunk in self-consuming anguish,

Can the poor heart always ache? No, the tortured nerve will languish,

Or the strings of life must break.

O’er the yielding brow of Sadness

One faint smile of comfort stole; One soft pang of tender gladness Exquisitely thrilled your soul.

While the wounds of woe are healing,

While the heart is all resigned, 'Tis the solemn feast of feeling,

'Tis the Sabbath of the mind.

Pensive memory then retraces

Scenes of bliss for ever fled, Lives in former times and places,

Holds communion with the dead.

And when night's prophetic slumbers

Rend the veil to mortal eyes, From their tombs the sainted numbers

Of our lost companions rise.

You have seen a friend, a brother,

Heard a dear dead father speak; Proved the fondness of a mother, Felt her tears upon your cheek!

Dreams of love your grief beguiling,

You have clasped a consort's charms, And received your infant smiling

From his mother's sacred arms.

Trembling, pale, and agonizing,

While you mourned the vision gone, Bright the morning star arising

Opened heaven, from whence it shone.

Thither all your wishes bending,

Rose in ecstacy sublime ; Thither all your hopes ascending,

Triumphed over death and time.

Thus afflicted, bruised, and broken,

Have you known such sweet relief? Yes, my friend ; and, by this token,

You have felt "THE JOY OF GRIEF"

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