THO' LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.
A SONG OF THE ALPS.
Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,
Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be,
Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells
How near such April joy to weeping dwells.
'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal
Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;
And music never half so sweet appears,
As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.
Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay—
It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,
Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath
Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath.
The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears
Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,—
And passion's power can never lend the glow
Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.
THE RUSSIAN LOVER.
Fleetly o'er the moonlight snows
Speed we to my lady's bower;
Swift our sledge as lightning goes,
Nor shall stop till morning's hour.
Bright, my steed, the northern star
Lights us from yon jewelled skies;
But to greet us, brighter far,
Morn shall bring my lady's eyes.
Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers,
Sleeping out their dream of time,
Know not half the bliss that's ours,
In this snowy, icy clime.
Like yon star that livelier gleams
From the frosty heavens around,
Love himself the keener beams
When with snows of coyness crowned.
Fleet then on, my merry steed,
Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;—
What can match a lover's speed?
See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale!
Brightly hath the northern star
Lit us from yon radiant Skies;
But, behold, how brighter far
Yonder shine my lady's eyes!
A SELECTION FROM THE SONGS IN
M. P.; OR, THE BLUE-STOCKING:
A COMIC OPERA IN THREE ACTS.
1811.