When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board
Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is pour'd,
And fond wishes for fair ones around offer'd up
From each lip that is wet with the dew ofthe cup,
What name on the brimmer floats oftener there,
Or is whisper'd more warmly, than ROSALIE CLARE ?
They may talk of the land of the olive and vine, Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine ; Of the houris that gladden the East with their smiles, Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles ; But what flower of far-away clime can compare With the blossom of ours-bright ROSALIE CLARE ?
Who owns not she's peerless , who calls her not fair? Let him meet but the glances of ROSALIE CLARE ! Let him list to her voice, let him gaze on her form, And if, seeing and hearing, his soul do not warm , Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air Than that which is bless'd by sweet ROSALIE CLARE.
Gen. Morris has a wide spread popularity as a song writer ; but in all the higher elements of the vocation he is inferior to Hoffman, and immeasurably below Pinkney. His most favorite songs have won fame more on account of the theme chosen by the poet, or from the music to which they were linked, than because of their literary merit. "Woodman spare that Tree !" is a familiar instance in support of our remark. Still the songs of Gen. Morris are highly meritorious, and perhaps oftener found in our parlors than those of more literary worth. One of the most spirited of his songs is " Land Ho !" LAND но ! FILL high the brimmer!-the land is in sight, We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night : The cold, cheerless ocean in safety we ' ve pass'd, And the warm, genial earth glads our vision at last ; In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find, To soothe us in absence of those left behind. Then fill high the brimmer ! the land is in sight, We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night? Fill high the brimmer ! -till morn we'll remain , Then part in the hope to meet one day again, Round the hearth-stone of home, in the land of our birth, The holiest spot on the face of the earth ! Dear country! our thoughts are more constant to thee Than the steel to the star or the stream to the sea. Then fill up the brimmer ! the land is in sight, We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night !
Fill high the brimmer !-the wine-sparkles rise Like tears, from the fountain of joy, to the eyes! May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of care, Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair! Drink deep to the chime of the nautical bells, To woman,-GOD bless her, wherever she dwells! Then fill high the brimmer! the land is in sight, We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night !
if it were some strain, " once heard in heaven, now heard again." FLORENCE VANE.
I LOVED thee long and dearly, Florence Vane ; My life's bright dream and early Hath come again ; I renew, in my fond vision , My heart's dear pain, My hopes and thy derision , Florence Vane . The ruin, lone and hoary, The ruin old Where thou didst hark my story, At even told,That spot-the hues Elysian Of sky and plainI treasure in my vision, Florence Vane. Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excell'd the closes Of sweetest rhyme ; Thy heart was as a river Without a main. Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane! But, fairest, coldest, wonder! Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod underAlas , the day! And it boots not to remember Thy disdainTo quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane.
The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep ; May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying. Florence Vane! Woodworth's " Bucket," (it is the best thing he has written) is known from the highlands of Aroostok to the lagunes of Louisiana. We need scarcely quote a song so extensively known. Often have we heard it away off' in some quiet valley of the mountain, where strangers are rarely seen. A lyric which can thus penetrate into the hearts of the people is one of high merit in its way, although it may not be distinguished by all that exquisite finish which will commend it to the man of taste, and ensure it immortality. And in this song it is its truth to nature which has made it such a favorite. Who cannot recall the fidelity of these lines ? THE BUCKET .
We must hurry on, however, for to enumerate all the popular songs of Gen. Morris would exclude his cotemporaries from a place in our gallery. We come now to the " Florence Vane" of P. P. Coke. Beautiful exceedingly is this song, as a dewdrop in the bosom of the violet, and lovelier and more false than the Aphrodite must have been she who inspired it. It lingers in our memory with a strange tenacity, as
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood! When fond recollection presents them to view ; The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well.
