Six Songs & Duetts

Poor harmless insect, thither fly,
   And life’s short hour enjoy;
’Tis all thou hast, and why should I
   That little all destroy.

 ... 

Then flutter still thy silken wings,
   In rich embroid'ry drest;
And sport upon the gale that flings
   Sweet odours from his breast. 

I gaz'd on the Rosebush, I heav'd a sad sigh, 
  And mine eyelid was gemm'd by a tear, 
Ah let me, I cried, by my Marian lie, 
  For all that I value sleeps here. 

This Rose-tree once flourish'd and sweeten'd the air,
  Like its blossom, all lovely she grew; 
The scent of her breath like its fragrance was rare,
  And her cheeks were more fresh than its hue. 

She planted, she lov'd it, she dew'd its gay head, 
  And its bloom every rival defied,
But alas! what was beauty or virtue soon fled, 
  In spring they both blossom'd and died.

Flowers are fresh, and bushes green,
Cheerily the linnets sing;
Winds are soft, and skies serene;
Time, however, soon shall throw
Winter’s snow
O’er the blithesome breast of Spring!

 ... 

Time shall make the bushes green;
Time dissolve the winter snow;
Winds be soft, and skies serene;
Linnets sing their wonted strain:
But again
Blighted love shall never blow!

Ah let the tear unheeded flow,
That trembles in thine eye,
Nor vainly strive the cause to know,
that prompts the secret sigh.

When hope attends the tuneful strain,
And paints the future fair,
'Tis sweetly soothing to complain,
But silence suits despair.

The slave of love I'll never be,
  My soul defies the urchin's art;
Go, blind deceiver, go and play 
  On softer hearts thy treacherous part. 

 ... 

To friendship only will I give 
  Those vows which others to thee pay,
And bless'd with her seraphic smile,
  My days in peace will glide away.

Then slave of love I'll never be,
  Deceitful boy, thy wiles are vain; 
I laugh to scorn thy dreadful frown,
  And treat thy proffers with disdain. 

 ... 

The kiss, dear maid, thy lip has left,
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love, may see;
The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.

 ... 

By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.