Gak darmo prsy hozj

How vainly, vainly burns my breast.
It burns an unextinguish'd fire;
And what can still desire to rest?
What stop the ragings of desire?

Can love, can burning love be quell'd
By love's reciprocal return?
Alas! the fires my bosom held,
Still raging in that bosom burn.

Where thorns around the rose-stem grew
There pour'd I forth my plaints forlorn;

( " Si je n'e etait captive. " )

Oh! were I not a captive,
I should love this fair countree;
Those fields with maize abounding,
This ever-plaintive sea:
I'd love those stars unnumbered,
If, passing in the shade,
Beneath our walls I saw not
The spahi's sparkling blade.

I am no Tartar maiden
That a blackamoor of price
Should tune my lute and hold to me
My glass of sherbet-ice.

Away — away — o'er the deep blue wave,
I spread my froward wing,
And the Winter's gale as proudly brave
As the balmy airs of Spring.

A venturous life and gay I lead,
Whatever wind may blow,
There's a boundless sky above my head,
And boundless seas below.

Let the Birds of Land to homes repair
Beneath the greenwood tree,
The hunter's tube awaits them there —
He dare not follow me.

I scorn the land and the landsman's hate,
The sailor's Bird am I;
My life is charm'd, for he knows the fate

Sweethearts and Wives — the Goblet pass —
A Bumper let it be,
Bright eyes are sparkling through each glass
'Tis " Saturday night at sea. "

The matron sits by her fireside,
Her children at her knee;
They're breathing prayers that we may glide
In safety o'er the sea.

The maiden droops in her shady bow'r
What cause of grief has she?
The heart that heeds not bird or flow'r,
Is with us on the sea.

But, brighter hours are yet in store,
From ev'ry danger free, —
We'll share the smiles of those on shore,

Mantled in snow, my native land,
I hail thee from the sea;
Cheerless to others looks the strand,
But oh! how dear to me.

My fellow-voyagers gaze and shrink,
As blows the breeze from shore,
With raptured pulse the air I drink—
The Northern breeze once more.

They, thinking of their Southern homes,
And of the trellised vine;
Wonder from icy shores there comes
Excited thought like mine.

As landmarks, they, thy headlands view,
Right glad to pass them by;
To me they're pictures, stern, but true,

Land of my Fathers! do I then behold
Thy noble outline rising from the sea?
Is this the Isle of which such tales are told?
Home of the wise, the valiant, and the free,
Dear to her sons, — perchance as dear to me,
Whose tongue is her's — and whose impetuous tide
Of life is of the sap of that great tree,
The trunk of which stands here in all its pride,
For whose majestic limbs the world is scarce too wide.

And is this England? let more sail be spread,
The mother's breast invites her unknown child,

I look up at the open sky,
And all the evils in
My heart the instant pale and die,
For, lo! I cannot sin!

I look up at the open sky,
And all the evils in
My heart the instant pale and die,
For, lo! I cannot sin!

My native Pines — my native Pines,
I love beneath your boughs to stray,
While morning's sun upon you shines
With bright, and warm, and fervid ray;
For oh! 'twas thus in childhood's hours,
I rov'd beneath them wild and free,
And gathered May's unsullied flowers,
That sprung around each forest tree.

My native Pines — my native Pines,
While noon-day breezes steal along,
And 'neath your fringe my head reclines,
I love to hear your sylvan song.
For oft in youth my form I threw
Upon that soft and mossy bed,

Almighty Father! at Thy Throne
A grateful people kneel.
Father of Mercies, Thou alone
Canst compass what we feel.

We thank Thee for the pleasant land
In which our lots are cast;
The guidance of Thy eydant hand
Through all its perils past.

We thank Thee for the forms that guard
The liberties we prize,
For every cherish'd old Church-yard,
Where rest the good and wise.

We thank Thee for the Altars free.
The Courts without a stain —
The glowing page of History,
The Bard's heroic strain;

Pursued across the waning year,
By winds that chase with lifted spear,
A leaf, blood-stained, fell spent at last
Upon my bosom, poor Outcast!

Pursued across the waning year,
By winds that chase with lifted spear,
A leaf, blood-stained, fell spent at last
Upon my bosom, poor Outcast!