SOFTLY sleeping is Shelah lying,
Dreaming of pleasure ne'er to come;
Here is her faithful Looney dying,
Wounded, friendless, and far from home.
Cease, thou raging, furious storm,
To beat so hard on my bosom bare!
Spare, ah! spare my mangl'd form,
When Fate such anguish has planted there.
Never may Shelah wake to sorrow;
Still may Hope on her prospect shine;
Cheerful her eye as it hails to-morrow,
That never, alas! must rise on mine.
O, for one look of my Shelah now!
O, for that hand I've so often prest,
To brush the cold damps as they chill my brow,
And close my eyes when I sink to rest.
HASTE, my love, this rosy morning
Leave the walks of busy strife;
Noisy Trade and bustle scorning,
Taste the sweets of rural life.
Hark young Sally sweetly singing,
As she bears the milking pail,
Every hill responsive ringing,
Wings the Echo o'er the dale.
Hark, the herds of oxen lowing
On the verdant dewy leas,
Gentle Zephyrs mildly blowing,
Whistle softly thro the trees.
Ceres, deck'd in robe so flowery,
Laughing on the Harvest plain,
Pays the earth her annual dowry,
Gladdening every Nymph and Swain.
See the riv❜let sweetly rolling,
O'er the meadow wind along,
On the grass the peasant lolling,
Careless chants his rural song.
See he eyes his corn maturing,
Nature wears a general smile,
Life, and health, and joy insuring,
Blest reward of all his toil.
See yon rustic lovers wooing,
Eye the modest blooming Fair,
See the swain for favour suing,
Mumbles out his artless prayer.
See the fleecy lambkins straying
Sportive on the silver mead;
Hark, their guardian shepherd playing,
Tunes to Love his oaten reed.
Fame, why should the shepherd woo thee?
Why forsake his rural dome?
Vague preferment, why pursue thee,
Wandering from his native home?
Ere thro' fields of blood he wander
To the sceptre and the throne,
Better by the stream's meander Roam a careless swain unknown.
Tho' on guilt's inglorious shoulder, Fate its choicest blessings shower, Better far in Honour moulder
Spotless as the infant flower.
Blest the peasant's humble dwelling, Mirth and joy his call obey; Sweet content, his woe cancelling, Laughs each little care away.
Haste, my Love, this rosy morning Leave the walks of busy strife; Noisy Trade, and bustle scorning, Taste the sweets of rural Life.
Set to Music by Mr. Ross.
WHY starts the tear in Anna's eye,
Why is her cheek so pale,
That quivering lip, and painful sigh,
Would speak some mournful Tale.
Say, have you seen the virgin rose,
E'er blasted in its bloom;
O shed a tear for all her woes,
For such is Anna Hume.
No opening flower in Summer Morn,
More sweet, more fair than she,
Till from her gentle boson torn,
Her William went to sea.
On Egypt's bloody coast, I ween,
Young William met his doom;
No pleasure since the eye has seen
Of hapless Anna Hume.
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