Chorus. My heart-it danced when he was near, Ah! now my woe is the young Chevalier; 'Tis a pang that solace ne'er can know, That he should be banished by a rightless foe.

S

GEORGE DARLEY

(1785-1846)

SONG

WEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers,

Lull'd by the faint breezes sighing through her
hair;

Sleeps she and hears not the melancholy numbers
Breathed to my sad lute 'mid the lonely air.

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming

To wind round the willow banks that lure him from

above;

O that in tears, from my rocky prison, streaming,
I too could glide to the bower of my love!

Ah! where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her,

Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her,

To her lost mate's call in the forest far away.

Come then, my bird! For the peace thou ever bearest,

Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me

Come, this fond bosom, O faithfullest and fairest,

Bleeds with its death-wound, its wound of love for thee !

SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS

U

P the dale and down the bourne,
O'er the meadow swift we fly:
Now we sing, and now we mourn,
Now we whistle, now we sigh.

By the grassy-fringed river,

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; 'Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,

To their very hearts we creep.

Now the maiden rose is blushing
At the frolic things we say,

While aside her cheek we're rushing,
Like some truant bees at play.

Through the blooming graves we rustle,

Kissing every bud we pass,

As we did it in the bustle,

Scarcely knowing how it was.

Down the glen, across the mountain,
O'er the yellow heath we roam,
Whirling round about the fountain,
Till its little breakers foam.

Bending down the weeping willows,
While our vesper hymn we sigh;

Then unto our rosy pillows

On our weary wings we hie.

There of idlenesses dreaming,
Scarce from waking we refrain,
Moments long as ages deeming
Till we're at our play again.

I

TO HELENE

On a gift-ring carelessly lost.

SEND a ring—a little band

Of emerald and ruby stone,
And bade it, sparkling on thy hand,
Tell thee sweet tales of one

Whose constant memory

Was full of loveliness, and thee.

A shell was graven on its gold

'Twas Cupid 'fin'd without his wings — To Helene once it would have told

More than was ever told by rings:

But now all's past and gone

Her love is buried with that stone.

Thou shalt not see the tears that start

From eyes by thoughts like these beguiled;

Thou shalt not know the beating heart,

Ever a victim and a child:

Yet Helene, love, believe

The heart that never could deceive.

I'll hear thy voice of melody

In the sweet whispers of the air;

I'll see the brightness of thine eye
In the blue evening's dewy star;
In crystal streams thy purity;
And look on heaven to look on thee.

TRUE LOVELINESS

T is not beauty I demand,

IT

A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.

Tell me not of your starry eyes,
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed.

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks,

Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,

A breath that softer music speaks

Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,

These are but gauds. Nay, what are lips?
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink when your adventurer slips,
Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft

That wave hot youths to fields of blood?

Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
Do Greece or Ilium any good?