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WILLY FOUND MALVINA MOURNING.

Willy found Malvina mourning,

Bath'd her cheeks with pearly tears,
His fond lips, the fair one's sorrow,
Kiss'd away and stay'd her fears.

Could Malvina think her Willy
Ever tender, ever true,

When her cheek should thus be drooping,
Tears and lips he'd kiss them too.

These fond arms should often press her,
To this bosom's home of love,
These fond lips should oft caress her-
Like as angels kiss above.

Could Malvina think her Willy,
Tender, constant, just and true-
When his sweet one thus should sorrow,
Tears and lips he'd kiss them too.

MY NATIVE LAND, ADIEU!

Adieu! my native land, adieu !

The vessel spreads her swelling sails; Perhaps I never more may view

Your fertile fields and flowery dales. Delusive hope can charm no more;

Far from the faithless maid I roam; Unfriended seek some foreign shore, Unpity'd leave my peaceful home.

Farewell, dear village, Oh, farewell!
Soft on the gale the murmur dies;
I hear thy solemn evening bell;

Thy spires yet glad mine aching eyes,
Tho' frequent falls the dazzling tear,

I'd scorn to shrink at fate's decree;
Yet think not cruel maid that e'er

I'll breathe another sigh for thee.

In vain thro' shades of frowning night,
Mine eyes thy rocky coast explore;
Deep sinks the fiery orb of light;

I view thy beacons now no more.
Rise billows, rise! blow hollow wind!
Nor night, nor storms, nor death I fear;

Ye friendly bear me hence to find
That peace which fate denies me here.

THE GIRL OF CADIZ.

LORD BYRON.

Born 1788-Died 1824.

Oh never talk again to me

Of northern climes and British ladies;

It has not been your lot to see,

Like me, the lovely Girl of Cadiz.

Although her eye be not of blue,

Nor fair her locks like English lasses,

How far its own expressive hue,
The languid azure eye surpasses!

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole
The fire, that through those silken lashes
In darkest glances seems to roll,

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: And as along her bosom steal

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel And curl'd to give her neck caresses.

Our English maids are long to woo,
And frigid even in possession;
And if their charms be fair to view,
Their lips are slow at love's confession :
But born beneath a brighter sun,
For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is,
when fondly, fairly won-
you like the girl of Cadiz ?

And who,

Enchants

The Spanish maid is no coquette,
Nor joys to see a lover tremble,

And if she love, or if she hate,

Alike she knows not to dissemble.
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold-
Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely;
And, though it will not bend to gold,
'Twill love you long and love you dearly.

The Spanish girl that meets your love
Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial,
For every thought is bent to prove
Her passion in the hour of trial.
When thronging foemen menace Spain,

She dares the deed and shares the danger;

And should her lover press the plain,

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger.

And when, beneath the evening star,
She mingles in the gay Bolero,
Or sings to her attuned guitar,

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero,
Or counts her beads with fairy hand
Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper,
Or joins devotions choral band,

To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd Vesper ;

In each her charms the heart must move,
Of all who venture to behold her;
Then let not maids less fair reprove
Because her bosom is not colder:
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam
Where many a soft and melting maid is,
But none abroad, and few at home,

May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz.

["The girl of Cadiz was found in the original MS. of the first Canto of Childe Harold, in place of the song "To Inez."]

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

LORD BYRON.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the ess,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

[From the Hebrew Melodies. "These stanzas," says the Editor of Byron's Works, vol. 10, p. 75, "were written by Lord Byron, on returning from a ball-room, where he had seen Mrs. (now Lady) Wilmot Horton, the wife of his relation the present Governor of Ceylon. On this occasion, Mrs. W. H. had appeared in mourning, with numerous spangles on her dress."]

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

LORD BYRON.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf in the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

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