(Sicilian Air.)

Go, then--'tis vain to hover Thus round a hope that's dead; At length my dream is over; 'Twas sweet--'twas false--'tis fled! Farewell! since naught it moves thee, Such truth as mine to see-- Some one, who far less loves thee, Perhaps more blest will be.

Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness New life around me shed; Farewell, false heart, whose lightness Now leaves me death instead. Go, now, those charms surrender To some new lover's sigh-- One who, tho' far less tender, May be more blest than I.

THE CRYSTAL-HUNTERS.