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*In this song, which is one of the many set to music by myself,

the occasional lawlessness of the Inetre arises, I need hardly say,

----- of the nor

---------------

WAKE THEE, MY DEAR.

WAKE thee, my dear—thy dreaming
Till darker hours will keep;

While such a moon is beaming,
'Tis wrong tow’rd Heaven to sleep.

Moments there are we number,
Moments of pain and care,
Which to oblivion's slumber
Gladly the wretch would spare.
But now—who'd think of dreaming
When Love his watch should keep 1
While such a moon is beaming,
'Tis wrong tow’rd Heaven to sleep.

If e^er the Fates should sever
My life and hopes from thee, love,
The sleep that lasts for ever
Would then be sweet to me, love;
But now, away with dreaming !
Till darker hours 'twill keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
'Tis wrong tow’rd Heaven to sleep.

THE BOY OF THE ALPS.

Lightly, Alpine rover,
Tread the mountains over;
Rude is the path thou'st yet to go;
Snow cliffs hanging o'er thee,
Fields of ice before thee,
While the hid torrent moans below.
Hark, the deep thunder,
Through the vales yonder
'Tis the huge av’lanche downward cast;
From rock to rock
Rebounds the shock.
But courage, boy! the danger's past.
Onward, youthful rover,
Tread the glacier over,
Safe shalt thou reach thy home at last.
On, ere light forsake thee, -
Soon will dusk o’ertake thee;
O'er yon ice-bridge lies the way!
Now, for the risk prepare thee;
Safe it yet may bear thee,
Though 'twill melt in morning's ray.

Hark, that dread howling!
'Tis the wolf prowling,-
Scent of thy track the foe hath got;
And cliff and shore
Resound his roar.
But courage, boy, the danger’s past !
Watching eyes have found thee,
Loving arms are round thee.
Safe hast thou reached thy father's cot.

THE YOUNG INDIAN MAID.

TheRE came a nymph dancing Gracefully, gracefully, I.- eye a light glancing Like the blue sea; And while all this gladness Around her steps hung, Such sweet notes of sadnces Her gentle lips sung, That ne'er while I live from my mem'ry shall fane The song, or the look, of that young Indian maid.

Her zone of bells ringing Cheerily, cheerily, Chimed to her singing Light echos of glee; But in vain did she borrow Of mirth the gay tone, Her voice spoke of sorrow, And sorrow alone. Nor e'er while I live from my mem'ry shall fade The song, or the look, of that young Indian maid.

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