INCE our Country, our God-Oh, my Sire! emand that thy Daughter expire; ince thy triumph was bought by thy vowtrike the bosom that's bared for thee now! nd the voice of my mourning is o'er, nd of this, oh, my Father! be surehat the blood of thy child is as pure s the blessing I beg ere it flow, nd the last thought that soothes me below. 5. When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear "heir leaves, the earliest of the year; 1 oft by yon blue gushing stream -hall Sorrow lean her drooping head, feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! ay; we know that tears are vain, hat death nor heeds nor hears distress: 1 this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? thou-who tell'st me to forget, - looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. MY SOUL IS DARK. 1. My soul is dark-Oh! quickly string Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. That sound shall charm it forth again; If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain: 2. But bid the strain be wild and deep, And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst, And break at once-or yield to song. |