(22 January 1788 – 19 April 1824 /
Adieu, Adieu! My Native Shore
Adieu, adieu! my native shore
And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low?
And wilt thou weep when I am low?
My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,
And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace
Oh lady! blessd be that tear–
Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?
Bright Be The Place Of Thy Soul!
Bright be the place of thy soul!
On earth thou wert all but divine,
Light be the turf of thy tomb!
Young flowers and an evergreen tree
In law an infant, and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean’d;
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Women his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school;
Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal when others just begin:
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure’s bowl;
But, pall’d with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his
In The Valley Of The Waters
In the valley of the waters we wept o’er the day
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey,
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,
And our hearts were so full of the land far away.
The song they demanded in vain–it lay still
In our souls as the wind that died on the hill;
They called for the harp–but our blood they shall spill
Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of our skill.
All stringlessly hung on the willow’s sad tree,
As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be;
Our hands may be fetter’d–our tears still are free,
For our God and our glory–and, Sion!–Oh, thee.
Francisca walks in the shadow of night,
But it is not to gaze on the heavenly light –
But if she sits in her garden bower,
‘Tis not for the sake of its blowing flower.
She listens – but not for the nightingale –
Though her ear expects as soft a tale.
There winds a step through the foliage thick,
And her cheek grows pale, and her heart beats quick.
There whispers a voice thro’ the rustling leaves;
A moment more and they shall meet –
‘Tis past – her lover’s at her feet.
I wish to tune my quivering lyre