And I was friendless when she died, Who could my little failings chide, And for an hour her fondness hide. But I can see no prospect ope, Can give no fairy vision scope, If thou art not the spring of hope. I cannot thy affection draw, By childhood's first admiring awe; Be tender pity then thy law! This heart would bleed at every vein, I could not even life sustain, If ever thou should'st give me pain. O! soul of sweetness! can it be, That thou could'st prove unkind to me! That I should fear this blow from thee! Alas! e'en then I would not blame, My love to thee should be the same, And judge from whence unkindness came! Her words grew indistinct and slow, Her voice more tremulous and low, When suddenly the song was o'er, A whisper even heard no more-- She had discern'd my nearer tread; Appear'd to feel alarm, and fled. * * * * * SONGS. * * * * * SONG. Thrice lovely babe! thus hush'd to rest, Upon thy warrior father's breast! Avails it, that his eyes behold, Thy rosy cheeks, thy locks of gold! Avails it that he bends his ear, So fondly thy soft breath to hear! Or, that his rising smiles confess, A gracious gleam of tenderness! The sweetest spell will scarce have pow'r To hold him for one absent hour! Some plant that ceases thus to share, A daily friend's auspicious care, Relaxes in its feeble grasp, The flow'ry tendrils soon unclasp, Loose in the heedless aether play, And every idle breeze obey! Thus vainly had I sought to bind; Thus watch'd that light, forgetful mind, Till smiles and sunshine could restore, My often-blighted hopes no more! * * * * * SONG. SET TO MUSIC BY MR. VOIGHT. What do I love? A polish'd mind, A temper cheerful, meek, and kind; A graceful air, unsway'd by art, A voice that sinks into the heart, A playful and benignant smile-- Alas! my heart responds the while, All this, my Emily, is true, But I love more in loving you! I love those roses when they rise, From joy, from anger, or surprise; I love the kind, attentive zeal, So prompt to know what others feel, The mildness which can ne'er reprove, But in the sweetest tones of love-- All this, my Emily, is true, But I love more in loving you! The self-command which can sustain, In silence, weariness and pain; The transport at a friend's success, Which has not words or power to bless, But, by a sudden, starting tear, Appears more precious, more sincere-- All this, my Emily, is true, And this I love in loving you! * * * * * A SAILOR'S SONG. SET TO MUSIC BY MR. WALSH.