CCXXVIII. O BEAUTY, PEERLESS IS THY GLOW, O beauty, peerless is thy glow, Resistless beams thy streaming eye, When the soft tears of pity flow, For heroes who in battle die, Who would not die the warrior's death, Nor cheerless shall the widow sigh, Are stars to guide the wand'rers home. CCXXIX. O WHEN AGAIN SHALL MY EYES ROVE *. O when again shall my eyes rove, Our cottages, our chrystal rills, The flower, the beauty of our dell, In the elm's shade, when shall I bound My father and my mother, My sister and my brother; O when again, &c. These simple stanzas are a translation of the poetry sung by the Swiss to the celebrated Rans de Vatch. Rousseau says, the air impressed them with so violent a desire to return home to their own country, that it was forbidden to be played in the Swiss regiments, in the French service, on pain of death. CCXXX. O, WHEN SHALL I VISIT THE LAND OF MY BIRTH+. O, when shall I visit the land of my birth, Our hamlets, our mountains, With the pride of our vallies, the maid I adore? When shall I return to that lowly retreat, My sister, my brother, And dear Isabella, the joy of them all? O, when shall I visit the land of my birth? 'Tis the lovliest land on the face of the earth! + This is another translation of the preceding celebrated song, by Mr. Montgomery, author of "The Wanderer in Switzerland," &c. Gg 3 Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond mem'ry brings the light Of other days around me. The smiles, the tears, Of boy-hood's years, The words of love then spoken, The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful vow now broken. Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad mem'ry brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends so linked together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose garlands dead, And all but me departed. Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad mem❜ry brings the light Of other days around me. CCXXXII. THOUGH YON FAREWEEL MAY BE THE LAST. AIR-Thou'rt gane awa'. Though yon fareweel may be the last, When tost upon the raging main, As loud the wild storms blow, Katy; |