While History's Muse.

Air -- Paddy Wack.

WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping

   Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,

Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,

   For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.

But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,

When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,

   She saw History write,

   With a pencil of light

That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington's name.

"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,

   The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;

Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,

   Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.

At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,

Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,

   And, bright o'er the flood

   Of her tears, and her blood,

Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name."

The Time I've Lost in Wooing.

Air -- Peas upon a Trencher.

THE time I've lost in wooing,

In watching and pursuing

The light that lies

In woman's eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing.

Though Wisdom oft has sought me,

I scorn'd the lore she brought me,

My only books

Were woman's looks,

And folly's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,

I hung with gaze enchanted,

Like him the Sprite,[1]

Whom maids by night

Oft meet in glen that's haunted.

Like him, too, Beauty won me,

But while her eyes were on me,

If once their ray

Was turn'd away,

O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?

And is my proud heart growing

Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes

Again to set it glowing?

No, vain, alas! the endeavour

From bonds so sweet to sever;

Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever.

Where is the Slave.

Air -- Sios augs sios liom.

OH, where's the slave so lowly,

Condemn'd to chains unholy,

   Who, could he burst

   His bonds at first,

Would pine beneath them slowly?

What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,

Would wait till time decay'd it,

   When thus its wing

   At once may spring

To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all,

Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing,

Alive, untouch'd and blowing,

   Than that whose braid

   Is pluckd to shade

The brows with victory glowing.

We tread the land that bore us,

Her green flag glitters o'er us,

   The friends we've tried

   Are by our side,

And the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all,

Who live to weep our fall!

Come, Rest in this Bosom.

Air -- Lough Sheeling.

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,

Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;

Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same

Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart?

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss,

And thy Angel I'd be, 'mid the horrors of this, --

Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,

And shield thee, and save thee, -- or perish there too!

'Tis Gone, And For Ever.

Air -- Savournah Deelish.

'TIS gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,

   Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead --

When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,

   Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled.

'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning,

But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning,

That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,

   And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting

   Around thee, through all the gross clouds of the world;

When Truth, from her letters indignantly starting,

   At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd.[1]

Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid!

Then, then -- had one Hymn of Deliverance blended

The tongues of all nations -- how sweet had ascended

   The first note of liberty , Erin, from thee!

But, shame on those tyrants who envied the blessing!

   And shame on the light race, unworthy its good,

Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing

   The young hope of Freedom, baptised it in blood.

Then vanish'd for ever that fair sunny vision,

Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,

Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian,

   As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee.

Fill the Bumper Fair.

Air -- Bob and Joan.

FILL the bumper fair!

   Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of Care

   Smooths away a wrinkle.

Wit's electric flame

   Ne'er so swiftly passes,

As when through the frame

   It shoots from brimming glasses.

Fill the bumper fair!

   Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of Care

   Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say,

   Grasp the lightning's pinions,

And bring down its ray

   From the starr'd dominions:

So we, Sages, sit,

   And, 'mid bumpers brightening,

From the Heaven of Wit

   Draw down all its lightning.

Fill the bumper, etc.

Wouldst thou know what first

   Made our souls inherit

This ennobling thirst

   For wine's celestial spirit?

It chanced, upon that day,

   When, as bards inform us,

Prometheus stole away

   The living fires that warm us:

Fill the bumper etc.

The careless Youth, when up

   To Glory's fount aspiring,

Took nor urn nor cup

   To hide the pilfer'd fire in. --

But oh, his joy, when, round

   The halls of heaven spying,

Among the stars he found,

    The bowl of Bacchus lying!

Fill the bumper, etc.

Some drops were in that bowl,

   Remains of last night's pleasure,

With which the Sparks of Soul

   Mix'd their burning treasure.

Hence the goblet's shower

   Hath such spells to win us;

Hence its mighty power

   O'er that flame within us.

Fill the bumper fair!

   Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of Care

   Smooths away a wrinkle.

In the Morning of Life.

Air -- The little Harvest Rose.

IN the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,

   And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,

When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,

   And the light that surrounds us is all from within;

Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time

   We can love, as in hours of less transport we may; --

Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime,

   But affection is truest when these fade away.

When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,

   Like a leaf on the stream that will never return,

When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,

   First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn;

Then, then in the time when affection holds sway

   With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew;

Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they,

   But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true.

In climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers,

   Their sighs have no freshness, their odour no worth;

'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers

   That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth.

So it is not 'mid splendour, prosperity, mirth,

   That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears;

To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth,

   But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.

I Saw From the Beach.

Air -- Miss Molly.

I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining,

   A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;

I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,

   The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

And such is the fate of our life's early promise,

   So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;

Each wave that we danced on at morning ebbs from us,

   And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning

   When passion first waked a new life through his frame,

And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in burning,

   Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame.

Dear Harp of my Country.

Air -- New Langolee.

DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,

   The cold chain of Silence had hung o'er thee long.[1]

When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,

   And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song.

The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness

   Have waken'd thy fondest, thy livliest thrill,

But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,

   That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,

   This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!

Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,

   Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine.

If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

   Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone;

I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,

   And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

My Gentle Harp.

Air -- The Coina, or Dirge.

MY gentle Harp, once more I waken

   The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;

In tears our last farewell was taken,

   And now in tears we meet again.

No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,

   But, like those harps whose heavenly skill

Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,

   Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded,

   An hour of peace and triumph came,

And many an ardent bosom bounded

   With hopes -- that now are turn'd to shame.

Yet even then, while Peace was singing

   Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,

Though joy and hope to others bringing,

   She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,

   My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?

Alas, the lark's gay morning measure

   As ill would suit the swan's decline!

Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,

   Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains,

When even the wreaths in which I dress thee

   Are sadly mix'd -- half flowers, half chains?

But come -- if yet thy frame can borrow

   One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me,

And show the world, in chains and sorrow,

   How sweet thy music still can be;

How gaily, even 'mid gloom surrounding,

   Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill --

Like Memnon's broken image sounding,

   'Mid desolation tunefull still!

As Slow Our Ship.

Air -- The Girl I left behind me.

AS slow our ship her foamy track

   Against the wind was cleaving,

Her trembling pennant still look'd back

   To that dear isle 'twas leaving.

So loath we part from all we love,

   From all the links that bind us;

So turn our hearts as on we rove,

   To those we've left behind us.

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years

   We talk, with joyous seeming, --

With smiles that might as well be tears,

   So faint, so sad their beaming;

While memory brings us back again

   Each early tie that twined us,

Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then

   To those we've left behind us.

And when, in other climes, we meet

   Some isle, or vale enhanting,

Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,

   And nought but love is wanting;

We think how great had been our bliss,

   If Heaven had but assign'd us

To live and die in scenes like this,

   With some we've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve,

   When eastward darkly going,

To gaze upon that light they leave

   Still faint behind them glowing --

So, when the close of pleasure's day

   To gloom hath near consign'd us,

We turn to catch one fading ray

   Of joy that's left beind us.

When Cold in the Earth.

Air -- Limerick's Lamentation.

WHEN cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved,

   Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then;

Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed,

   Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again.

And oh! if 'tis pain to remember how far

   From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam,

Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star

   That arose on his darkness, and guided him home.

From thee and thy innocent beauty first came

   The revealings, that taught him true love to adore,

To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame

   From the idols he blindly had knelt to before.

O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild,

   Thou camest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea;

And if happiness purely and glowingly smiled

   On his evening horizon, the light was from thee.

And though sometimes the shades of past folly might rise,

   And though falsehood again would allure him to stray,

He but turn'd to the glory that dwelt in those eyes,

   And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanish'd away.

As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim,

   At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair,

So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him,

   He but flew to that smile and rekindled it there.

Remember Thee!

Air -- Castle Tirowen.

REMEMBER thee! yes, while there's life in this heart,

It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art;

More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,

Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,

First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,

I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,

But oh! could I love thee more deeply tha now?

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,

But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons --

Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest,

Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

Wreath the Bowl.

Air -- Noran Kista.

WREATH the bowl

With flowers of soul,

The brightest Wit can find us,

We'll take a flight

Towards heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

Should Love amid

The wreaths be hid

That Joy, the enchanter, brings us,

No danger fear,

While wine is near --

We'll drown him if he stings us.

Then, wreath the bowl

With flowers of soul,

The brightest Wit can find us.

We'll take a flight

Towards heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

'Twas nectar fed

Of old, 'tis said,

Their Junos, Joves, Apollos,

And man may brew

His nectar too,

The rich receipt's as follows:

Take wine like this,

Let looks of bliss

Around it well be blended,

Then bring Wit's beam

To warm the stream,

And there's your nectar, splendid!

So, wreath the bowl,

With flowers of soul,

The brightest Wit can find us,

We'll take a flight

Towards heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

Say, why did Time

His glass sublime

Fill up with sands unsightly,

When wine, he knew,

Runs brisker through,

And sparkles far more brightly?

Oh, lend it us,

And, smiling thus,

The glass in two we'll sever,

Make pleasure glide

In double tide,

And fill both ends for ever!

Then, wreath the bowl

With flowers of soul

The brightest Wit can find us;

We'll take a flight

Towards heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us.

Whene'er I See Those Smiling Eyes.

Air -- Father Quinn.

WHEN'ER I see those smiling eyes,

   So full of hope, and joy, and light,

As if no cloud could ever rise,

   To dim a heaven so purely bright --

I sigh to think how soon that brow

   In grief may lose its every ray,

And that light heart, so joyous now,

   Almost forget it once was gay.

For time will come with all its blights,

   The ruin'd hope, the friend unkind,

And love, that leaves, where'er it lights,

   A chill'd or burning heart behind:

While youth, that now like snow appears,

   Ere sullied by the darkening rain,

When once 'tis touch'd by sorrow's tears,

   Can never shine so bright again.

If Thou'lt Be Mine.

Air -- The Winnowing Sheet.

IF thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air,

   Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet;

Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair,

   Or in Hope's sweet music sounds most sweet,

       Shall be ours -- if thou wilt be mine, love!

Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove,

   A voice divine shall talk in each stream;

The stars shall look like world of love,

   And this earth be all one beautiful dream

       In our eyes -- if thou wilt be mine, love!

And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high,

   Like streams that come from heaven-ward hills,

Shall keep our hearts, like meads, that lie

   To be bathed by those eternal rills,

       Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love!

All this and more the Spirit of Love

   Can breathe o'er them who feel his spells;

That heaven, which forms his home above,

   He can make on earth, wherever he dwells,

      As thou'lt own, -- if thou wilt be mine, love!

To Ladies' Eyes.

Air -- Fague a Ballagh.

TO Ladies' eyes a round, boy,

   We can't refuse, we can't refuse;

Though bright eyes so abound, boy,

   'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose.

For thick as stars that lighten

   Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers,

The countless eyes that brighten

   This earth of ours, this earth of ours.

But fill the cup -- where'er, boy,

   Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,

We're sure to find Love there, boy,

   So drink them all! so drink them all!

Some looks there are so holy,

   They seem but given, they seem but given,

As shining beacons, solely,

   To light to heaven, to light to heaven,

While some -- oh! ne'er believe them --

   With tempting ray, with tempting ray,

Would lead us (God forgive them!)

   The other way, the other way.

But fill the cup -- where'er, boy,

   Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,

We're sure to find Love there, boy;

   So drink them all! so drink them all!

In some, as in a mirror,

   Love seems pourtray'd, Love seems pourtray'd,

But shun the flattering error,

   'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade.

Himself has fix'd his dwelling

   In eyes we know, in eyes we know,

And lips -- but this is telling --

   So here they go! so here they go!

Fill up, fill up -- where'er, boy,

   Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,

We're sure to find Love there, boy;

   So drink them all ! so drink them all!

Forget Not the Field.

Air -- The Lamentation of Aughrim.

FORGET not the field where they perish'd,

   The truest, the last of the brave,

All gone -- and the bright hope we cherish'd

   Gone with them, and quench'd in their grave!

Oh! could we from death but recover

   Those hearts as they bounded before,

In the face of high heaven to fight over

   That combat for freedom once more; --

Could the chain for an instant be riven

   Which Tyranny flung round us then,

No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,

   To let Tyranny bind it again!

But 'tis past -- and, though blazon'd in story

   The name of our Victor may be,

Accurst is the march of that glory

   Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

For dearer the grave or the prison,

   Illumed by one patriot name,

Than the trophies of all who have risen

   On Liberty's ruins to fame.

Sail On, Sail On.

Air -- The Humming of the Ban.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark --

   Where'er blows the welcome wind,

It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

   More sad than those we leave behind.

Each wave that passes seems to say,

   "Though death beneath our smile may be,

Less cold we are, less false than they,

   Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee."

Sail on, sail on -- through endless space --

   Through calm -- through tempest -- stop no more:

The stormiest sea's a resting-place

   To him who leaves such hearts on shore.

Or -- if some desert land we meet,

   Where never yet false-hearted men

Profaned a world, that else were sweet --

   Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

Ne'er Ask the Hour.

Air -- My husband's a journey to Portugal gone.

Ne'er ask the hour -- what is it to us

   How Time deals out his treasures?

The golden moments lent us thus

   Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.

If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,

   I'd number each glorious second:

But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,

   Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.

Then fill the cup -- what is it to us

   How time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus

   Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,

   Till Care, one summer's morning,

Set up, among his smiling flowers,

   A dial, by way of warning.

But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,

   As long as its light was glowing,

Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on,

   And how fast that light was going.

So fill the cup -- what is it to us

   How time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus

   Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

They May Rail at this Life.

Air -- Noch bonin shin doe.

THEY may rail at this life -- from the hour I began it

   I found it a life full of kindness and bliss;

And, until they can show me some happier planet,

   More social and bright, I'll content me with this.

As long as the world has such lips and such eyes

   As before me this moment enraptured I see,

They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies,

   But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them

   New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high,

Though the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them,

   They've none, even there, more enamour'd than I.

And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love,

   And that eye its divine inspiration shall be,

They may talk as they will of their Edens above,

   But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour,

   At twilight so often we've roam'd through the dew,

There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender,

   And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.

But though they were even more bright than the queen

   Of that Isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea,

As I never those fair young celestials have seen,

   Why -- this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation,

   Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare,

Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,

   Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could spare,

Oh! think what a world we should have of it here,

   If the haters of peace, of affection and glee,

Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,

   And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.

Oh For the Swords of Former Time.

Air -- Name Unknown.

OH for the swords of former time!

   Oh for the men who bore them,

When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime,

   And tyrants crouch'd before them:

When free yet, ere courts began

   With honours to enslave him,

The best honours worn by Man

   Were those which Virtue gave him.

Oh for the swords, etc., etc.

Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then!

   Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,

When hearts and hands of freeborn men

   Were all the ramparts round them.

When, safe built on bosoms true,

   The throne was but the centre,

Round which Love a circle drew

   That Treason durst not enter.

Oh, for the Kings who flourish'd then!

   Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,

When hearts and hands of freeborn men

   Were all the ramparts round them!

The Parallel.

Air -- I would rather than Ireland.

YES, sad one of Sion,[1] if closely resembling,

    In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heart --

If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling"

    Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.

Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken,

    And fall'n from her head is the once royal crown;

In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken,

    And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."[2]

Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning,

    Die far from the home it were life to behold;

Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning

    Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old.

Ah, well may we call her, like thee, "the Forsaken,"[3]

    Her boldest are vanquish'd, her proudest are slaves;

And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,

    Have tones 'mid their mirth like the wind over graves!

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance -- yet came there the morrow,

    That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night,

When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow,

    Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City[4]

    Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own lips;

And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,

    The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over,

    Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust,

And a ruin at last for the earthworm to cover,[5]

    The Lady of Kingdoms[6] lay low in the dust.

Drink of This Cup.

Air -- Paddy O'Rafferty.

DRINK of this cup; -- you'll find there's a spell in

   Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;

Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen;

    Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Would you forget the dark world we are in

    Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;

But would you rise above earth, till akin

    To immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it!

Send round the cup -- for oh there's a spell in

    Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;

Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

    Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter form'd with such power

    To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;

Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,

    A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.

There having, by Nature's enchantment, been fill'd

    With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather,

This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd

    To enliven such hearts as are here brought together.

Then drink of the cup -- you'll find there's a spell in

    Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;

Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

    Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

And though, perhaps -- but breathe it to no one --

    Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful,

This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,

    Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful.

And, even though it taste of the smoke of that flame

    Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden --

Fill up -- there's a fire in some hearts I could name,

    Which may work too its charm, though as lawless and hidden.

So drink of the cup -- for oh there's a spell in

    Its very drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;

Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!

    Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

The Fortune-Teller.

Air -- Open the Door softly.

DOWN in the valley come meet me to-night,

   And I'll tell you your fortune truly

As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light,

   To a young maiden, shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh,

   Lest haply the stars should deceive me,

Such secrets between you and me and the sky

   Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim,

   My science shall call up before you

A male apparition -- the image of him

   Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

And if to that phantom you'll be kind,

   So fondly around you he'll hover,

You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find

   'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,

   He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion --

An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite

   You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise,

   As in destiny's book I've not seen them,

Must only be left to the stars and your eyes

   To settle, ere morning, between them.