Rivals banished, bosoms plighted, Still our days are disunited; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half quenched appears, Damped, and wavering, and benighted, Midst my sighs and tears. Charms you call your dearest blessing, Lips that thrill at your caressing, Eyes a mutual soul confessing, Soon you’ll make them grow Dim, and worthless your possessing Not with age, but woe! SONG. Drink ye to her that each loves best. And if you nurse a flame That’s told but to her mutual breast, We will not ask her name. Enough, while memory tranced and glad Paints silently the fair, That each should dream of joys he’s had, Or yet may hope to share. Yet far, far hence be jest or boast From hallowed thoughts so dear; But drink to them that we love most, As they would love to hear. SONG. When Napoleon was flying From the field of Waterloo, A British soldier dying To his brother bade adieu! “And take,” he said, “this token To the maid that owns my faith, With the words that I have spoken In affection’s latest breath.” Sore mourned the brother’s heart, When the youth beside him fell; But the trumpet warned to part, And they took a sad farewell. There was many a friend to lose him, For that gallant soldier sighed; But the maiden of his bosom Wept when all their tears were dried. THE BEECH-TREE’S PETITION. O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bird perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive The ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour. Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made; And on my trunk’s surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground, By all that Love has whispered here, Or Beauty heard with ravished ear; As Love’s own altar honour me: Spare woodman, spare the beechen tree! SONG. Earl March looked on his dying child, And smit with grief to view her— “The youth,” he cried, “whom I exiled, Shall be restored to woo her.” She’s at the window many an hour His coming to discover; And her love looked up to Ellen’s bower, And she looked on her lover— But ah! so pale, he knew her not, Though her smile on him was dwelling. “And am I then forgot—forgot?”— It broke the heart of Ellen.