And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness,
With our other joys to weave,
Oh what glory, what completeness,
Then would crown this bright May Eve!
Shine out, Stars! let night assemble
Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
To adorn this Eve of May.

THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.

Oh, the joys of our evening posada,
Where, resting, at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
Sit and sing the sunshine away;
So merry, that even the slumbers
That round us hung seem gone;
Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers
Again beguile them on.
Oh the joys, etc.

Then as each to his loved sultana
In sleep still breathes the sigh,
The name of some black-eyed Tirana,
Escapes our lips as we lie.
Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,
Again we're up and gone—
While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle
Beguiles the rough way on.
Oh the joys of our merry posada,
Where, resting at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
Thus sing the gay moments away.

TELL HER, OH, TELL HER.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying
Beneath the green arbor is still lying there;
And breezes like lovers around it are sighing,
But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,
Beside the green arbor she playfully set,
As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

So while away from that arbor forsaken,
The maiden is wandering, still let her be
As true as the lute that no sighing can waken
And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!

SHINE OUT, STARS!

THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.

TELL HER, OH, TELL HER.