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"In Happy Moments" - Don Josť Alas! Those chimes - Lazarillo
In happy moments day by day, Alas! those chimes so sweetly stealing,
The sands of life may pass, Gently, dulcet to the ear,
In swift but tranquil tide away Sound like pity's voice revealing
From time's unerring glass. To the dying: "death is near."
Yet hopes we used as bright todeem, Still he slumbers, how serenely,
Remembrance will recall, Not a sigh disturbs his rest;
Whose pure and whose unfolding beam Oh, that angels now might waft him
Is dearer than them all. To the mansions of the blest.
Though anxious eyes upon us gaze, Yes, Yes, those chimes so softly swelling,
And hearts with fondness beat, As from some holy sphere,
AWhose smile upon each feature plays, Sound like hymns of spirits telling
With truthfulness replete - To the dying; "Peace is here."
Some thoughts none other can replace, Come! Abide with us in heaven;
Remembrance will recall, Here no grief can reach thy breast.
Which, in the flight of years we trace, Come! Approving angels wait thee
Is dearer than them all. In the mansions of the blest.
"Scenes that are brightest" - Maritana "There is a flow'r that bloometh" -Don Caesar
Scenes that are brightest There is a flow'r that bloometh
May charm awhile, When autumn leaves are shed,
Hearts which are lightest With the silent moon it weepeth,
And eyes that smile: The spring and summer fled;
Yet o'er them, above us, The early frost of winter,
Though nature beam, Scarce its brow hath overcast -
With more to love us, Oh, pluck it ere it wither:
How sad they seem! 'Tis the mem'ry of the past.
Words cannot scatter It wafteth perfume o'er us,
The thoughts we fear, Which few can e'er forget,
For, though they flatter, Of the bright scenes gone before us
They mock the ear. Of sweet, tho' sad, regret.
Hopes will still deceive us, Let no heart brave its power,
With tearful cost, By guilty thoughts o'ercast,
And while they leave us, For then a poison'd flower,
The heart is lost. Is the mem'ry of the past.

'Tis the Harp in the air! - Maritana

"Sainted Mother" - Maritana & Lazarillo
It was a night of princely mien Sainted Mother, guide his footsteps,
I hear it again: 'tis the harp in the air! Guide them at a moment sure;
It hangs on the walls of the old Moorish halls, Let the wicked heart then perish,
Tho' none know its minstrel, or how it came there. And the good remain secure,
List pilgrim, list!  'Tis the harp in the air!  Sainted Mother, oh, befriend him,
And thy gentlest pity lend him!

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