The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, The village maid steals through the shade The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky, And high and low the influence know But where is County Guy? SONG SIR WALTER SCOTT WHERE shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast Where, through groves deep and high Where early violets die Under the willow, Eleu loro, Soft shall be his pillow. There, through the summer day, Scarce are boughs waving ; Never again to wake, Never, O never! Eleu loro, Where shall the traitor rest, Who could win maiden's breast, In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying; There shall he be lying. Her wing shall the eagle flap Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; Blessings shall hallow it Never, O never! Never, O never! SIR WALTER SCOTT SONG A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, A doublet of the Lincoln green- No more of me you knew. O SONG LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see, And love, in life's extremity, Can lend an hour of cheering. All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Across her cheek was flying; By fits so ashy pale she grew, Her maidens thought her dying. Yet keenest powers to see and hear Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd He came he pass'd-an heedless gaze SIR WALTER SCOTT SONG FAREWELL to Northmaven, To the calms of thy haven, Farewell the wild ferry, Which Hacon could brave, These wild waves in vain, For the skiff of her lover He comes not again. The vows thou hast broke, On the wild currents fling them; Let the mermaiden sing them. But there's one who will never O were there an island, Too tempting a snare Το poor mortals were given; And the hope would fix there, SIR WALTER SCOTT LOVE ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I The moonshine stealing o'er the scene |