[1] "A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, 'For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband.'"—"Garcilasso de la Vega," in Sir Paul Ryeaut's translation.



GREEK AIR

List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings, While, from Ilissus' silvery springs, She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, Dreams of bright days that never can return; When Athens nurst her olive bough With hands by tyrant power unchained; And braided for the muse's brow A wreath by tyrant touch unstained. When heroes trod each classic field Where coward feet now faintly falter; When every arm was Freedom's shield, And every heart was Freedom's altar!



FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

Hark, 'tis the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears!— Oh! many a mother folds her arms Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears; And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears, Is proud to feel his young pulse bound With valor's fever at the sound. See, from his native hills afar The rude Helvetian flies to war; Careless for what, for whom he fights, For slave or despot, wrongs or rights: A conqueror oft—a hero never— Yet lavish of his life-blood still, As if 'twere like his mountain rill, And gushed forever!

Yes, Music, here, even here, Amid this thoughtless, vague career, Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.— There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks Of his own loved land, at evening hour, Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks, Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind With tenderest thoughts; to bring around his knees The rosy children whom he left behind, And fill each little angel eye With speaking tears, that ask him why He wandered from his hut for scenes like these. Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar; Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears; And the stern eyes that looked for blood before Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.



SWISS AIR.—"RANZ DES VACHES."

But wake, the trumpet's blast again, And rouse the ranks of warrior-men! Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs, And Freedom's spirit guides the laboring storm, 'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form, And like Heaven's lightning sacredly destroys. Nor, Music, thro' thy breathing sphere, Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear Of Him who made all harmony, Than the blest sound of fetters breaking, And the first hymn that man awaking From Slavery's slumber breathes to Liberty.



SPANISH CHORUS.

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain, Burst the bold, enthusiast strain, Like morning's music on the air; And seems in every note to swear By Saragossa's ruined streets, By brave Gerona's deathful story, That, while one Spaniard's life-blood beats, That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory.



SPANISH AIR.—"YA DESPERTO."

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal, If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal Which shuts so close the books of Europe's right— What song shall then in sadness tell Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, Of buried hopes, remembered well Of ardor quenched, and honor faded? What muse shall mourn the breathless brave, In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine? What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? Oh Erin, Thine!



SET OF GLEES,

MUSIC BY MOORE.



THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

When o'er the silent seas alone, For days and nights we've cheerless gone, Oh they who've felt it know how sweet, Some sunny morn a sail to meet.

Sparkling at once is every eye, "Ship ahoy!" our joyful cry; While answering back the sounds we hear, "Ship ahoy!" what cheer? what...cheer?

Then sails are backed, we nearer come, Kind words are said of friends and home; And soon, too soon, we part with pain, To sail o'er silent seas again.



HIP, HIP, HURRA!

Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim, He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him; Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue, Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true. Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine; Here's "the friends of our youth—tho' of some we're bereft, May the links that are lost but endear what are left!" Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Once more fill a bumper—ne'er talk of the hour; On hearts thus united old Time has no power. May our lives, tho', alas! like the wine of to-night, They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright. Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Quick, quick, now, I'll give you, since Time's glass will run Even faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one; Here's the poet who sings—here's the warrior who fights— Here's the, statesman who speaks, in the cause of men's rights! Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come, once more, a bumper!—then drink as you please, Tho', who could fill half-way to toast such as these? Here's our next joyous meeting—and oh when we meet, May our wine be as bright and our union as sweet! Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!



HUSH, HUSH!

"Hush, hush!"—how well That sweet word sounds, When Love, the little sentinel, Walks his night-rounds; Then, if a foot but dare One rose-leaf crush, Myriads of voices in the air Whisper, "Hush, hush!"

"Hark, hark, 'tis he!" The night elves cry, And hush their fairy harmony, While he steals by; But if his silvery feet One dew-drop brush, Voices are heard in chorus sweet, Whispering, "Hush, hush!"



THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE.

HE.

On to the field, our doom is sealed, To conquer or be slaves: This sun shall see our nation free, Or set upon our graves.

SHE.

Farewell, oh farewell, my love, May heaven thy guardian be, And send bright angels from above To bring thee back to me.

HE.

On to the field, the battle-field, Where freedom's standard waves, This sun shall see our tyrant yield, Or shine upon our graves.



THE WATCHMAN.

A TRIO.

WATCHMAN.

Past twelve o'clock—past twelve.

Good night, good night, my dearest— How fast the moments fly! 'Tis time to part, thou hearest That hateful watchman's cry.

WATCHMAN.

Past one o'clock—past one.

Yet stay a moment longer— Alas! why is it so, The wish to stay grows stronger, The more 'tis time to go?

WATCHMAN.

Past two o'clock—past two.

Now wrap thy cloak about thee— The hours must sure go wrong, For when they're past without thee, They're, oh, ten times as long.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock—past three.

Again that dreadful warning! Had ever time such flight? And see the sky, 'tis morning— So now, indeed, good night.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock—past three.

Goodnight, good night.



SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE?

Say, what shall we dance? Shall we bound along the moonlight plain, To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain? Say, what shall we dance? Shall we, like those who rove Thro' bright Grenada's grove, To the light Bolero's measures move? Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay, And thus to its sound die away?

Strike the gay chords, Let us hear each strain from every shore That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er. Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time, The Polish lady, by her lover led, Delights thro' gay saloons with step untried to tread, Or sweeter still, thro' moonlight walks Whose shadows serve to hide The blush that's raised by who talks Of love the while by her side, Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound Like dreams we go gliding around, Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?



THE EVENING GUN.

Remember'st thou that setting sun, The last I saw with thee, When loud we heard the evening gun Peal o'er the twilight sea? Boom!—the sounds appeared to sweep Far o'er the verge of day,

Till, into realms beyond the deep, They seemed to die away. Oft, when the toils of day are done, In pensive dreams of thee, I sit to hear that evening gun, Peal o'er the stormy sea. Boom!—and while, o'er billows curled. The distant sounds decay, I weep and wish, from this rough world Like them to die away.



LEGENDARY BALLADS.



TO

THE MISS FEILDINGS,

THIS VOLUME

IS INSCRIBED

BY

THEIR FAITHFUL FRIEND AND SERVANT,

THOMAS MOORE.



LEGENDARY BALLADS



THE VOICE.

It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days, When love, only love was the light of her ways; And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago, It whispered her name from the garden below.

"Alas," sighed the maiden, "how fancy can cheat! "The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet; "But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep. "Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!"

She sunk on her pillow—but no, 'twas in vain To chase the illusion, that Voice came again! She flew to the casement—but, husht as the grave, In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.

"Oh sleep, come and shield me," in anguish she said, "From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!" And sleep came around her—but, starting, she woke, For still from the garden that spirit Voice spoke!

"I come," she exclaimed, "be thy home where it may, "On earth or in Heaven, that call I obey;" Then forth thro' the moonlight, with heart beating fast And loud as a death-watch, the pale maiden past.

Still round her the scene all in loneliness shone; And still, in the distance, that Voice led her on; But whither she wandered, by wave or by shore, None ever could tell, for she came back no more.

No, ne'er came she back,—but the watchman who stood, That night, in the tower which o'ershadows the flood, Saw dimly, 'tis said, o'er the moonlighted spray, A youth on a steed bear the maiden away.



CUPID AND PSYCHE.

They told her that he, to whose vows she had listened Thro' night's fleeting hours, was a spirit unblest;— Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glistened, And evil the lips she in darkness had prest.

"When next in thy chamber the bridegroom reclineth, "Bring near him thy lamp, when in slumber he lies; "And there, as the light, o'er his dark features shineth, "Thou'lt see what a demon hath won all thy sighs!"

Too fond to believe them, yet doubting, yet fearing, When calm lay the sleeper she stole with her light; And saw—such a vision!—no image, appearing To bards in their day-dreams, was ever so bright.

A youth, but just passing from childhood's sweet morning, While round him still lingered its innocent ray; Tho' gleams, from beneath his shut eyelids gave warning Of summer-noon lightnings that under them lay.

His brow had a grace more than mortal around it, While, glossy as gold from a fairy-land mine, His sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crowned it Seemed fresh from the breeze of some garden divine.

Entranced stood the bride, on that miracle gazing, What late was but love is idolatry now; But, ah—in her tremor the fatal lamp raising— A sparkle flew from it and dropt on his brow.

All's lost—with a start from his rosy sleep waking; The Spirit flashed o'er her his glances of fire; Then, slow from the clasp of her snowy arms breaking, Thus said, in a voice more of sorrow than ire:

"Farewell—what a dream thy suspicion hath broken! "Thus ever. Affection's fond vision is crost; "Dissolved are her spells when a doubt is but spoken, "And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost!"



HERO AND LEANDER.

"The night wind is moaning with mournful sigh, "There gleameth no moon in the misty sky "No star over Helle's sea; "Yet, yet, there is shining one holy light, "One love-kindled star thro' the deep of night, "To lead me, sweet Hero, to thee!"

Thus saying, he plunged in the foamy stream, Still fixing his gaze on that distant beam No eye but a lover's could see; And still, as the surge swept over his head, "To night," he said tenderly, "living or dead, "Sweet Hero, I'll rest with thee!"

But fiercer around him, the wild waves speed; Oh, Love! in that hour of thy votary's need, Where, where could thy Spirit be? He struggles—he sinks—while the hurricane's breath Bears rudely away his last farewell in death— "Sweet Hero, I die for thee!"



THE LEAF AND THE FOUNTAIN.

"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee, "So may the stars obey thee "So may each airy "Moon-elf and fairy "Nightly their homage pay thee! "Say, by what spell, above, below, "In stars that wink or flowers that blow, "I may discover, "Ere night is over, "Whether my love loves me, or no, "Whether my love loves me."

"Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee "Hath charms no gold could buy thee; "Its stem enchanted. "By moon-elves planted, "Will all thou seek'st supply thee. "Climb to yon boughs that highest grow, "Bring thence their fairest leaf below; "And thou'lt discover, "Ere night is over, "Whether thy love loves thee or no, "Whether thy love loves thee."

"See, up the dark tree going, "With blossoms round me blowing, "From thence, oh Father, "This leaf I gather, "Fairest that there is growing. "Say, by what sign I now shall know "If in this leaf lie bliss or woe "And thus discover "Ere night is over, "Whether my love loves me or no, "Whether my love loves me."

"Fly to yon fount that's welling "Where moonbeam ne'er had dwelling, "Dip in its water "That leaf, oh Daughter, "And mark the tale 'tis telling;[1] "Watch thou if pale or bright it glow, "List thou, the while, that fountain's flow, "And thou'lt discover "Whether thy lover, "Loved as he is, loves thee or no, "Loved as he is, loves thee."

Forth flew the nymph, delighted, To seek that fount benighted; But, scarce a minute The leaf lay in it, When, lo, its bloom was blighted! And as she asked, with voice of woe— Listening, the while, that fountain's flow— "Shall I recover "My truant lover?" The fountain seemed to answer, "No;" The fountain answered, "No."

[1] The ancients had a mode of divination somewhat similar to this; and we find the Emperor Adrian, when he went to consult the Fountain of Castalia, plucking a bay leaf, and dipping it into the sacred water.



CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS.

A hunter once in that grove reclined, To shun the noon's bright eye, And oft he wooed the wandering wind, To cool his brow with its sigh, While mute lay even the wild bee's hum, Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair, His song was still "Sweet air, oh come?" While Echo answered, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise! What meaneth that rustling spray? "'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries, "I have sought since break of day." Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs, The arrow flies from his sounding bow, "Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings, While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe He saw in the rustling grove, But the bridal veil, as pure as snow, Of his own young wedded love. And, ah, too sure that arrow sped, For pale at his feet he sees her lie;— "I die, I die," was all she said, While Echo murmured. "I die, I die!"



YOUTH AND AGE.

"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day, To drooping Age, who crest his way.— "It is a sunny hour of play, "For which repentance dear doth pay; "Repentance! Repentance! "And this is Love, as wise men say." "Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more, Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.— "Soft as a passing summer's wind, "Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind? "Repentance! Repentance! "And this is Love—when love is o'er."

"Tell me, what's Love? "said Youth again, Trusting the bliss, but not the pain. "Sweet as a May tree's scented air— "Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear, "Repentance! Repentance! "This, this is Love—sweet Youth, beware."

Just then, young Love himself came by, And cast on Youth a smiling eye; Who could resist that glance's ray? In vain did Age his warning say, "Repentance! Repentance!" Youth laughing went with Love away.



THE DYING WARRIOR.

A wounded Chieftain, lying By the Danube's leafy side, Thus faintly said, in dying, "Oh! bear, thou foaming tide. "This gift to my lady-bride."

'Twas then, in life's last quiver, He flung the scarf he wore Into the foaming river, Which, ah too quickly, bore That pledge of one no more!

With fond impatience burning, The Chieftain's lady stood, To watch her love returning In triumph down the flood, From that day's field of blood.

But, field, alas, ill-fated! The lady saw, instead Of the bark whose speed she waited, Her hero's scarf, all red With the drops his heart had shed.

One shriek—and all was over— Her life-pulse ceased to beat; The gloomy waves now cover That bridal-flower so sweet. And the scarf is her winding sheet!



THE MAGIC MIRROR.

"Come, if thy magic Glass have power "To call up forms we sigh to see; "Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower, "Where last she pledged her truth to me."

The Wizard showed him his Lady bright, Where lone and pale in her bower she lay; "True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight, "She's thinking of one, who is far away."

But, lo! a page, with looks of joy, Brings tidings to the Lady's ear; "'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy, "Who used to guide me to my dear." The Lady now, from her favorite tree, Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower: "Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she "Each morning sent me from that bower!"

She gives her page the blooming rose, With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!" "Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes, "By fancying, still, her true-love nigh." But the page returns, and—oh, what a sight, For trusting lover's eyes to see!— Leads to that bower another Knight, As young and, alas, as loved as he!

"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!" Then, darting forth, with furious bound, Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove, And strewed it all in fragments round.

MORAL.

Such ills would never have come to pass, Had he ne'er sought that fatal view; The Wizard would still have kept his Glass, And the Knight still thought his Lady true.



THE PILGRIM.

Still thus, when twilight gleamed, Far off his Castle seemed, Traced on the sky; And still, as fancy bore him. To those dim towers before him, He gazed, with wishful eye; And thought his home was nigh.

"Hall of my Sires!" he said, "How long, with weary tread, "Must I toil on? "Each eve, as thus I wander, "Thy towers seem rising yonder, "But, scarce hath daylight shone, "When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"

So went the Pilgrim still, Down dale and over hill, Day after day; That glimpse of home, so cheering, At twilight still appearing, But still, with morning's ray, Melting, like mist, away!

Where rests the Pilgrim now? Here, by this cypress bough, Closed his career; That dream, of fancy's weaving, No more his steps deceiving, Alike past hope and fear, The Pilgrim's home is here.



THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.

In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her, Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she; Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her, But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling, "That Knight must the conqueror of conquerors be; "He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in:— "None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree; Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her, And worshipt at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her, With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea; His visor was down—but, with voice that thrilled thro her, He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye.

"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee, "In me the great conqueror of conquerors see; "Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee, "And mine, thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"

The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her, Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she; And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her In pomp to his home, of that highborn Ladye.

"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you, led me? "Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; "Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?" With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye.

"Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures"— Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see; But she sunk on the ground—'twas a skeleton's features And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!



THE INDIAN BOAT.

'Twas midnight dark, The seaman's bark, Swift o'er the waters bore him, When, thro' the night, He spied a light Shoot o'er the wave before him. "A sail! a sail!" he cries; "She comes from the Indian shore "And to-night shall be our prize, "With her freight of golden ore; "Sail on! sail on!" When morning shone He saw the gold still clearer; But, though so fast The waves he past That boat seemed never the nearer.

Bright daylight came, And still the same Rich bark before him floated; While on the prize His wishful eyes Like any young lover's doted: "More sail! more sail!" he cries, While the waves overtop the mast; And his bounding galley flies, Like an arrow before the blast. Thus on, and on, Till day was gone, And the moon thro' heaven did hie her, He swept the main, But all in vain, That boat seemed never the nigher.

And many a day To night gave way, And many a morn succeeded: While still his flight, Thro day and night, That restless mariner speeded. Who knows—who knows what seas He is now careering o'er? Behind, the eternal breeze, And that mocking bark, before! For, oh, till sky And earth shall die, And their death leave none to rue it, That boat must flee O'er the boundless sea, And that ship in vain pursue it.



THE STRANGER.

Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground; Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady, Her language, tho' sweet, none could e'er understand; But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady, Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping, A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears; So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping, Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears.

We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;— But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high, With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us, All lovely and lone, as if strayed from the sky.

Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended, For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue, Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended, And light from another already shines through.

Then her eyes, when she sung—oh, but once to have seen them— Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart; While her looks and her voice made a language between them, That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.

But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her— Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast; She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her. That song of past days on her lips to the last.

Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing— Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb; For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing, The same strain of music is heard thro' the gloom.



BALLADS, SONGS, ETC.



TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.

To-day, dearest! is ours; Why should Love carelessly lose it? This life shines or lowers Just as we, weak mortals, use it. 'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow And Joy, if left on the stem to-day, May wither before to-morrow.

Then why, dearest! so long Let the sweet moments fly over? Tho' now, blooming and young Thou hast me devoutly thy lover; Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse, Some treasure may steal or borrow; Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, Or I less in love to-morrow.



WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.

When on the lip the sigh delays, As if 'twould linger there for ever; When eyes would give the world to gaze, Yet still look down and venture never; When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove, There's one we dream of more than any— If all this is not real love, 'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart, On all we've got to say at meeting; And yet when near, with heart to heart, Sit mute and listen to their beating: To see but one bright object move, The only moon, where stars are many— If all this is not downright love, I prithee say what is, my Fanny!

When Hope foretells the brightest, best, Tho' Reason on the darkest reckons; When Passion drives us to the west, Tho' Prudence to the eastward beckons; When all turns round, below, above, And our own heads the most of any— If this is not stark, staring love, Then you and I are sages, Fanny.



HERE, TAKE MY HEART.

Here, take my heart—'twill be safe in thy keeping, While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea; Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping, What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love, They who have light hearts the happiest be, Then happier still must be they who have none, love. And that will be my case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover, I care not how many bright eyes I may see; Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her, I'd tell her I couldn't—my heart is with thee.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder— For, even should Fortune turn truant to me, Why, let her go—I've a treasure beyond her, As long as my heart's out at interest With thee!



OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.

Oh, call it by some better name, For Friendship sounds too cold, While Love is now a worldly flame, Whose shrine must be of gold: And Passion, like the sun at noon, That burns o'er all he sees, Awhile as warm will set as soon— Then call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are, Yet human, still as they: And if thy lip, for love like this, No mortal word can frame, Go, ask of angels what it is, And call it by that name!



POOR WOUNDED HEART

Poor wounded heart, farewell! Thy hour of rest is come; Thou soon wilt reach thy home, Poor wounded heart, farewell! The pain thou'lt feel in breaking Less bitter far will be, Than that long, deadly aching, This life has been to thee.

There—broken heart, farewell! The pang is o'er— The parting pang is o'er; Thou now wilt bleed no more. Poor broken heart, farewell! No rest for thee but dying— Like waves whose strife is past, On death's cold shore thus lying, Thou sleepst in peace at last— Poor broken heart, farewell!



THE EAST INDIAN.

Come, May, with all thy flowers, Thy sweetly-scented thorn, Thy cooling evening showers, The fragrant breath at morn: When, May-flies haunt the willow, When May-buds tempt the bee, Then o'er the shining billow My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging Thro' watery wilds her way, And on her cheek is bringing The bright sun's orient ray: Oh, come and court her hither, Ye breezes mild and warm— One winter's gale would wither So soft, so pure a form.

The fields where she was straying Are blest with endless light, With zephyrs always playing Thro' gardens always bright. Then now, sweet May! be sweeter Than e'er, thou'st been before; Let sighs from roses meet her When she comes near our shore.



POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee? Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath— In vain the sunbeams seek To warm that faded cheek; The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee; Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,— Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou; In vain the smiles of all Like sunbeams round her fall: The only smile that could from death awaken her, That smile, alas! is gone to others now.



THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

Being weary of love, I flew to the grove, And chose me a tree of the fairest; Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree, "Thou my mistress shall be, "And I'll worship each bud thou bearest. "For the hearts of this world are hollow, "And fickle the smiles we follow; "And 'tis sweet, when all "Their witcheries pall "To have a pure love to fly to: "So, my pretty Rose-tree, "Thou my mistress shalt be, "And the only one now I shall sigh to."

When the beautiful hue Of thy cheek thro' the dew Of morning is bashfully peeping, "Sweet tears," I shall say (As I brush them away), "At least there's no art in this weeping" Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow; 'Twill not be from pain or sorrow; And the thorns of thy stem Are not like them With which men wound each other; So, my pretty Rose-tree, Thou my mistress shalt be And I'll never again sigh to another.



SHINE OUT, STARS!

Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, All to grace this Eve of May. Let the flower-beds all lie waking, And the odors shut up there, From their downy prisons breaking, Fly abroad thro sea and air.

And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness, With our other joys to weave, Oh what glory, what completeness, Then would crown this bright May Eve! Shine out, Stars! let night assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, To adorn this Eve of May.



THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.

Oh, the joys of our evening posada, Where, resting, at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Sit and sing the sunshine away; So merry, that even the slumbers That round us hung seem gone; Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers Again beguile them on. Oh the joys, etc.

Then as each to his loved sultana In sleep still breathes the sigh, The name of some black-eyed Tirana, Escapes our lips as we lie. Till, with morning's rosy twinkle, Again we're up and gone— While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle Beguiles the rough way on. Oh the joys of our merry posada, Where, resting at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Thus sing the gay moments away.



TELL HER, OH, TELL HER.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying Beneath the green arbor is still lying there; And breezes like lovers around it are sighing, But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going, Beside the green arbor she playfully set, As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing, And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

So while away from that arbor forsaken, The maiden is wandering, still let her be As true as the lute that no sighing can waken And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!



NIGHTS OF MUSIC.

Nights of music, nights of loving, Lost too soon, remembered long. When we went by moonlight roving, Hearts all love and lips all song. When this faithful lute recorded All my spirit felt to thee; And that smile the song rewarded— Worth Whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor, Filled with joys too sweet to last— Joys that, like the star-light, tender, While they shore no shadow cast. Tho' all other happy hours From my fading memory fly, Of, that starlight, of those bowers, Not a beam, a leaf may die!



OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE.

Our first young love resembles That short but brilliant ray, Which smiles and weeps and trembles Thro' April's earliest day. And not all life before us, Howe'er its lights may play, Can shed a lustre o'er us Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander A blaze serener, grander; Our autumn beam May, like a dream Of heaven, die calm away; But no—let life before us Bring all the light it may, 'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us Like that first youthful ray.



BLACK AND BLUE EYES.

The brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts without Caring who feels 'em; But the soft eye of blue, Tho' it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em— Dear Fanny! Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.

The black eye may say, "Come and worship my ray— "By adoring, perhaps you may move me!" But the blue eye, half hid, Says from under its lid, "I love and am yours, if you love me!" Yes, Fanny! The blue eye, half hid, Says, from under its lid, "I love and am yours, if you love me!"

Come tell me, then, why In that lovely blue eye Not a charm of its tint I discover; Oh why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said "No" to a lover? Dear Fanny! Oh, why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said "No" to a lover?



DEAR FANNY.

"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool; "She has wit, but you mustn't be caught, so;" Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, Dear Fanny. 'Tis not the first time I have thought so.

"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; "'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season;" Thus Love has advised me and who will deny That Love reasons much better than Reason, Dear Fanny? Love reasons much better than Reason.



FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

From life without freedom, say, who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark!—hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave, The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding—haste, haste to her aid; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains— The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains. On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. And oh, even if Freedom from this world be driven, Despair not—at least we shall find her in heaven.



HERE'S THE BOWER.

Here's the bower she loved so much, And the tree she planted; Here's the harp she used to touch— Oh, how that touch enchanted! Roses now unheeded sigh; Where's the hand to wreathe them? Songs around neglected lie; Where's the lip to breathe them? Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved Ne'er shall feel its sweetness; Time, that once so fleetly moved, Now hath lost its fleetness. Years were days, when here she strayed, Days were moments near her; Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid, Nor Pity wept a dearer! Here's the bower, etc.



I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.

A FINLAND LOVE SONG.

I saw the moon rise clear O'er hills and vales of snow Nor told my fleet reindeer The track I wished to go. Yet quick he bounded forth; For well my reindeer knew I've but one path on earth— The path which leads to you.

The gloom that winter cast, How soon the heart forgets, When summer brings, at last, Her sun that never sets! So dawned my love for you; So, fixt thro' joy and pain, Than summer sun more true, 'Twill never set again.



LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.

Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shade Where man ne'er had wandered nor sunbeam played; "Why thus in darkness lie?" whispered young Love, "Thou, whose gay hours in sunshine should move." "I ne'er," said the Dial, "have seen the warm sun, "So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one."

Then Love took the Dial away from the shade, And placed her where Heaven's beam warmly played. There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye, While, marked all with sunshine, her hours flew by. "Oh, how," said the Dial, "can any fair maid "That's born to be shone upon rest in the shade?"

But night now comes on and the sunbeam's o'er, And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more. Alone and neglected, while bleak rain and winds Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds That Love had but numbered a few sunny hours,— Then left the remainder to darkness and showers!



LOVE AND TIME.

'Tis said—but whether true or not Let bards declare who've seen 'em— That Love and Time have only got One pair of wings between 'em. In Courtship's first delicious hour, The boy full oft can spare 'em; So, loitering in his lady's bower, He lets the gray-beard wear 'em. Then is Time's hour of play; Oh, how be flies, flies away!

But short the moments, short as bright, When he the wings can borrow; If Time to-day has had his flight, Love takes his turn to-morrow. Ah! Time and Love, your change is then The saddest and most trying, When one begins to limp again, And t'other takes to flying. Then is Love's hour to stray; Oh, how he flies, flies away!

But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel, And bless the silken fetter, Who knows, the dear one, how to deal With Love and Time much better. So well she checks their wanderings, So peacefully she pairs 'em, That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings, And Time for ever wears 'em. This is Time's holiday; Oh, how he flies, flies away!



LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD.

Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us— Youth may wither, but feeling will last; All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast. Oh, if to love thee more Each hour I number o'er— If this a passion be Worthy of thee, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. Charms may wither, but feeling shall last: All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee, Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee, Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal; Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee, Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel. Oh, if there be a charm, In love, to banish harm— If pleasure's truest spell Be to love well, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee, Charms may wither, but feeling shall last; All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee. Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.



LOVE, WANDERING THRO' THE GOLDEN MAZE.

Love, wandering through the golden maze Of my beloved's hair, Traced every lock with fond delays, And, doting, lingered there. And soon he found 'twere vain to fly; His heart was close confined, For, every ringlet was a tie— A chain by beauty twined.



MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH.

(THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY.)

Merrily every bosom boundeth, Merrily, oh! Where the song of Freedom soundeth, Merrily oh! There the warrior's arms Shed more splendor; There the maiden's charm's Shine more tender; Every joy the land surroundeth, Merrily, oh! merrily, oh!

Wearily every bosom pineth, Wearily, oh! Where the bond of slavery twineth Wearily, oh There the warrior's dart Hath no fleetness; There the maiden's heart Hath no sweetness— Every flower of life declineth, Wearily, oh! wearily, oh!

Cheerily then from hill and valley, Cheerily, oh! Like your native fountain sally, Cheerily, oh! If a glorious death, Won by bravery, Sweeter be than breath Sighed in slavery, Round the flag of Freedom rally, Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh!



REMEMBER THE TIME.

(THE CASTILIAN MAID.)

Remember the time, in La Mancha's shades, When our moments so blissfully flew; When you called me the flower of Castilian maids, And I blushed to be called so by you; When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille. And to dance to the light castanet; Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will, The delight of those moments forget.

They tell me, you lovers from Erin's green isle, Every hour a new passion can feel; And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile. You'll forget the poor maid of Castile. But they know not how brave in battle you are, Or they never could think you would rove; For 'tis always the spirit most gallant in war That is fondest and truest in Love.



OH, SOON RETURN.

Our white sail caught the evening ray, The wave beneath us seemed to burn, When all the weeping maid could say, Was, "Oh, soon return!" Thro' many a clime our ship was driven O'er many a billow rudely thrown; Now chilled beneath a northern heaven, Now sunned in summer's zone: And still, where'er we bent our way, When evening bid the west wave burn, I fancied still I heard her say, "Oh, soon return!"

If ever yet my bosom found Its thoughts one moment turned from thee, 'Twas when the combat raged around, And brave men looked to me. But tho' the war-field's wild alarm For gentle love was all unmeet, He lent to glory's brow the charm, Which made even danger sweet. And still, when victory's calm came o'er The hearts where rage had ceased to burn, Those parting words I heard once more, "Oh, soon return!—Oh, soon return!"



LOVE THEE?

Love thee?—so well, so tenderly Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, Were worthless without thee. Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare, Life's cup before me lay, Unless thy love were mingled there, I'd spurn the draft away. Love thee?—so well, so tenderly, Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, Are worthless without thee.

Without thy smile, the monarch's lot To me were dark and lone, While, with it, even the humblest cot Were brighter than his throne. Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs For me would have no charms; My only world thy gentle eyes— My throne thy circling arms! Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Whole realms of light and liberty Were worthless without thee.



ONE DEAR SMILE.

Couldst thou look as dear as when First I sighed for thee; Couldst thou make me feel again Every wish I breathed thee then, Oh, how blissful life would be! Hopes that now beguiling leave me, Joys that lie in slumber cold— All would wake, couldst thou but give me One dear smile like those of old.

No—there's nothing left us now, But to mourn the past; Vain was every ardent vow— Never yet did Heaven allow Love so warm, so wild, to last. Not even hope could now deceive me— Life itself looks dark and cold; Oh, thou never more canst give me One dear smile like those of old



YES, YES, WHEN THE BLOOM.

Yes, yes, when, the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er, He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay; And, tho' Time may take from him the wings he once wore, The charms that remain will be bright as before, And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away. Then let it console thee, if Love should not stay, That Friendship our last happy moments will crown: Like the shadows of morning, Love lessens away, While Friendship, like those at the closing of day, Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down.



THE DAY OF LOVE.

The beam of morning trembling Stole o'er the mountain brook, With timid ray resembling Affection's early look. Thus love begins—sweet morn of love!

The noon-tide ray ascended, And o'er the valley's stream Diffused a glow as splendid As passion's riper dream. Thus love expands—warm noon of love!

But evening came, o'ershading The glories of the sky, Like faith and fondness fading From passion's altered eye. Thus love declines—cold eve of love!



LUSITANIAN WAR-SONG.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains, Till not one hateful link remains Of slavery's lingering chains; Till not one tyrant tread our plains, Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains. No! never till that glorious day Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains, Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say, "Your cloud of foes hath past away, "And Freedom comes with new-born ray "To gild your vines and light your fountains." Oh, never till that glorious day Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.



THE YOUNG ROSE.

The young rose I give thee, so dewy and bright, Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night, Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung, And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sung.

Oh, take thou this young rose, and let her life be Prolonged by the breath she will borrow from thee; For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill, She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.



WHEN MIDST THE GAY I MEET.

When midst the gay I meet That gentle smile of thine, Tho' still on me it turns most sweet, I scarce can call it mine: But when to me alone Your secret tears you show, Oh, then I feel those tears my own, And claim them while they flow. Then still with bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free; Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me.

The snow on Jura's steep Can smile in many a beam, Yet still in chains of coldness sleep. How bright soe'er it seem. But, when some deep-felt ray Whose touch is fire appears, Oh, then the smile is warmed away, And, melting, turns to tears. Then still with bright looks bless The gay, the cold, the free; Give smiles to those who love you less, But keep your tears for me.



WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS.

When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star, whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love. And thou too, on that orb so dear, Dost often gaze at even, And think, tho' lost for ever here, Thou'lt yet be mine in heaven.

There's not a garden walk I tread, There's not a flower I see, love, But brings to mind some hope that's fled, Some joy that's gone with thee, Love. And still I wish that hour was near, When, friends and foes forgiven, The pains, the ills we've wept thro' here May turn to smiles in heaven.



YOUNG JESSICA.

Young Jessica sat all the day, With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining; Her needle bright beside her lay, So active once!—now idly shining. Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts That love and mischief are most nimble; The safest shield against the darts Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.

The child who with a magnet plays Well knowing all its arts, so wily, The tempter near a needle lays. And laughing says, "We'll steal it slily." The needle, having naught to do, Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle; Till closer, closer come the two, And—off, at length, elopes the needle.

Now, had this needle turned its eye To some gay reticule's construction, It ne'er had strayed from duty's tie, Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction. Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts, Your snowy fingers must be nimble; The safest shield against the darts Of Cupid is Minerva's thimble.



HOW HAPPY, ONCE.

How happy, once, tho' winged with sighs, My moments flew along, While looking on those smiling eyes, And listening to thy magic song! But vanished now, like summer dreams, Those moments smile no more; For me that eye no longer beams, That song for me is o'er. Mine the cold brow, That speaks thy altered vow, While others feel thy sunshine now.

Oh, could I change my love like thee, One hope might yet be mine— Some other eyes as bright to see, And hear a voice as sweet as thine: But never, never can this heart Be waked to life again; With thee it lost its vital part, And withered then! Cold its pulse lies, And mute are even its sighs, All other grief it now defies.



I LOVE BUT THEE.

If, after all, you still will doubt and fear me, And think this heart to other loves will stray, If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me; By every dream I have when thou'rt away, By every throb I feel when thou art near me, I love but thee—I love but thee!

By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing, Where Love in depth of shadow holds his throne, And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying, Or grave or gay, a music of its own, A music far beyond all minstrel's playing, I love but thee—I love but thee!

By that fair brow, where Innocence reposes, As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow, And by that cheek, whose fleeting blush discloses A hue too bright to bless this world below, And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses, I love but thee—I love but thee!



LET JOY ALONE BE REMEMBERED NOW.

Let thy joys alone be remembered now, Let thy sorrows go sleep awhile; Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow, Let Love light it up with his smile, For thus to meet, and thus to find, That Time, whose touch can chill Each flower of form, each grace of mind, Hath left thee blooming still, Oh, joy alone should be thought of now, Let our sorrows go sleep awhile; Or, should thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow, Let Love light it up with his smile.

When the flowers of life's sweet garden fade, If but one bright leaf remain, Of the many that once its glory made, It is not for us to complain. But thus to meet and thus to wake In all Love's early bliss; Oh, Time all other gifts may take, So he but leaves us this! Then let joy alone be remembered now, Let our sorrows go sleep awhile; Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er the brow, Let Love light it up with his smile!



LOVE THEE, DEAREST? LOVE THEE?

Love thee, dearest? love thee? Yes, by yonder star I swear, Which thro' tears above thee Shines so sadly fair; Tho' often dim, With tears, like him, Like him my truth will shine, And—love thee, dearest? love thee? Yes, till death I'm thine.

Leave thee, dearest? leave thee? No, that star is not more true; When my vows deceive thee, He will wander too. A cloud of night May veil his light, And death shall darken mine— But—leave thee, dearest? leave thee? No, till death I'm thine.



MY HEART AND LUTE.

I give thee all—I can no more— Tho' poor the offering be; My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee. A lute whose gentle song reveals The soul of love full well; And, better far, a heart that feels Much more than lute could tell.

Tho' love and song may fail, alas! To keep life's clouds away, At least 'twill make them lighter pass, Or gild them if they stay. And even if Care at moments flings A discord o'er life's happy strain, Let Love but gently touch the strings, 'Twill all be sweet again!



PEACE, PEACE TO HIM THAT'S GONE!

When I am dead. Then lay my head In some lone, distant dell, Where voices ne'er Shall stir the air, Or break its silent spell.

If any sound Be heard around, Let the sweet bird alone, That weeps in song, Sing all night long, "Peace, peace, to him that's gone!"

Yet, oh, were mine One sigh of thine, One pitying word from thee, Like gleams of heaven, To sinners given, Would be that word to me.

Howe'er unblest, My shade would rest While listening to that tone;— Enough 'twould be To hear from thee, "Peace, peace, to him that gone."



ROSE OF THE DESERT

Rose of the Desert! thou, whose blushing ray, Lonely and lovely, fleets unseen away; No hand to cull thee, none to woo thy sigh,— In vestal silence left to live and die.— Rose of the Desert! thus should woman be, Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.

Rose of the Garden, how, unlike thy doom! Destined for others, not thyself, to bloom; Culled ere thy beauty lives thro' half its day; A moment cherished, and then cast away; Rose of the Garden! such is woman's lot,— Worshipt while blooming—when she fades, forgot.



'TIS ALL FOR THEE.

If life for me hath joy or light, 'Tis all from thee, My thoughts by day, my dreams by night, Are but of thee, of only thee. Whate'er of hope or peace I know, My zest in joy, my balm in woe, To those dear eyes of thine I owe, 'Tis all from thee.

My heart, even ere I saw those eyes, Seemed doomed to thee; Kept pure till then from other ties, 'Twas all for thee, for only thee. Like plants that sleep till sunny May Calls forth their life my spirit lay, Till, touched by Love's awakening ray, It lived for thee, it lived for thee.

When Fame would call me to her heights, She speaks by thee; And dim would shine her proudest lights, Unshared by thee, unshared by thee. Whene'er I seek the Muse's shrine, Where Bards have hung their wreaths divine, And wish those wreaths of glory mine, 'Tis all for thee, for only thee.



THE SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME.

There's a song of the olden time, Falling sad o'er the ear, Like the dream of some village chime, Which in youth we loved to hear. And even amidst the grand and gay, When Music tries her gentlest art I never hear so sweet a lay, Or one that hangs so round my heart, As that song of the olden time, Falling sad o'er the ear, Like the dream of some village chime, Which in youth we loved to hear,

And when all of this life is gone,— Even the hope, lingering now, Like the last of the leaves left on Autumn's sere and faded bough,— 'Twill seem as still those friends were near, Who loved me in youth's early day, If in that parting hour I hear The same sweet notes and die away,— To that song of the olden time, Breathed, like Hope's farewell strain, To say, in some brighter clime, Life and youth will shine again!



WAKE THEE, MY DEAR.

Wake thee, my dear—thy dreaming Till darker hours will keep; While such a moon is beaming, 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Moments there are we number, Moments of pain and care, Which to oblivious slumber Gladly the wretch would spare.

But now,—who'd think of dreaming When Love his watch should keep? While such a moon is beaming, 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

If e'er the fates should sever My life and hopes from thee, love, The sleep that lasts for ever Would then be sweet to me, love; But now,—away with dreaming! Till darker hours 'twill keep; While such a moon is beaming, 'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.



THE BOY OF THE ALPS.

Lightly, Alpine rover, Tread the mountains over; Rude is the path thou'st yet to go; Snow cliffs hanging o'er thee, Fields of ice before thee, While the hid torrent moans below. Hark, the deep thunder, Thro' the vales yonder! 'Tis the huge avalanche downward cast; From rock to rock Rebounds the shock. But courage, boy! the danger's past. Onward, youthful rover, Tread the glacier over, Safe shalt thou reach thy home at last. On, ere light forsake thee, Soon will dusk o'ertake thee: O'er yon ice-bridge lies thy way! Now, for the risk prepare thee; Safe it yet may bear thee, Tho' 'twill melt in morning's ray.

Hark, that dread howling! 'Tis the wolf prowling,— Scent of thy track the foe hath got; And cliff and shore Resound his roar. But courage, boy,—the danger's past!

Watching eyes have found thee, Loving arms are round thee, Safe hast thou reached thy father's cot.



FOR THEE ALONE.

For thee alone I brave the boundless deep, Those eyes my light through every distant sea; My waking thoughts, the dream that gilds my sleep, The noon-tide revery, all are given to thee, To thee alone, to thee alone.

Tho' future scenes present to Fancy's eye Fair forms of light that crowd the distant air, When nearer viewed, the fairy phantoms fly, The crowds dissolve, and thou alone art there, Thou, thou alone.

To win thy smile, I speed from shore to shore, While Hope's sweet voice is heard in every blast, Still whispering on that when some years are o'er, One bright reward shall crown my toil at last, Thy smile alone, thy smile alone,

Oh place beside the transport of that hour All earth can boast of fair, of rich, and bright, Wealth's radiant mines, the lofty thrones of power,— Then ask where first thy lover's choice would light? On thee alone, on thee alone.



HER LAST WORDS, AT PARTING.

Her last words, at parting, how can I forget? Deep treasured thro' life, in my heart they shall stay; Like music, whose charm in the soul lingers yet, When its sounds from the ear have long melted away. Let Fortune assail me, her threatenings are vain; Those still-breathing words shall my talisman be,— "Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain, "There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee."

From the desert's sweet well tho' the pilgrim must hie, Never more of that fresh-springing fountain to taste, He hath still of its bright drops a treasured supply, Whose sweetness lends life to his lips thro' the waste. So, dark as my fate is still doomed to remain, These words shall my well in the wilderness be,— "Remember, in absence, in sorrow, and pain, "There's one heart, unchanging, that beats but for thee."



LET'S TAKE THIS WORLD AS SOME WIDE SCENE.

Let's take this world as some wide scene. Thro' which in frail but buoyant boat, With skies now dark and now serene, Together thou and I must float; Beholding oft on either shore Bright spots where we should love to stay; But Time plies swift his flying oar, And away we speed, away, away.

Should chilling winds and rains come on, We'll raise our awning 'gainst the shower; Sit closer till the storm is gone, And, smiling, wait a sunnier hour. And if that sunnier hour should shine, We'll know its brightness cannot stay, But happy while 'tis thine and mine,

Complain not when it fades away. So shall we reach at last that Fall Down which life's currents all must go,— The dark, the brilliant, destined all To sink into the void below. Nor even that hour shall want its charms, If, side by side, still fond we keep, And calmly, in each other's arms Together linked, go down the steep.



LOVE'S VICTORY.

Sing to Love—for, oh, 'twas he Who won the glorious day; Strew the wreaths of victory Along the conqueror's way. Yoke the Muses to his car, Let them sing each trophy won; While his mother's joyous star Shall light the triumph on.

Hail to Love, to mighty Love, Let spirits sing around; While the hill, the dale, and grove, With "mighty Love" resound; Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal Amid the sounds thus echoed o'er, 'Twill but teach the god to feel His victories the more.

See his wings, like amethyst Of sunny Ind their hue; Bright as when, by Psyche kist, They trembled thro' and thro'. Flowers spring beneath his feet; Angel forms beside him run; While unnumbered lips repeat "Love's victory is won!" Hail to Love, to mighty Love, etc,



SONG OF HERCULES TO HIS DAUGHTER.[1]

"I've been, oh, sweet daughter, "To fountain and sea, "To seek in their water "Some bright gem for thee. "Where diamonds were sleeping, "Their sparkle I sought, "Where crystal was weeping, "Its tears I have caught.

"The sea-nymph I've courted "In rich coral halls; "With Naiads have sported "By bright waterfalls. "But sportive or tender, "Still sought I around "That gem, with whose splendor "Thou yet shalt be crowned.

"And see, while I'm speaking, "Yon soft light afar;— "The pearl I've been seeking "There floats like a star! "In the deep Indian Ocean "I see the gem shine, "And quick as light's motion "Its wealth shall be thine."

Then eastward, like lightning, The hero-god flew, His sunny looks brightening The air he went thro'. And sweet was the duty, And hallowed the hour, Which saw thus young Beauty Embellished by Power.

[1] Founded on the fable reported by Arrian (in Indicis) of Hercules having searched the Indian Ocean, to find the pearl with which he adorned his daughter Pandaea.



THE DREAM OF HOME.

Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam? Sunlight more soft may o'er us fall, To greener shores our bark may come; But far more bright, more dear than all, That dream of home, that dream of home.

Ask the sailor youth when far His light bark bounds o'er ocean's foam, What charms him most, when evening's star Smiles o'er the wave? to dream of home. Fond thoughts of absent friends and loves At that sweet hour around him come; His heart's best joy where'er he roves, That dream of home, that dream of home.



THEY TELL ME THOU'RT THE FAVORED GUEST.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest Of every fair and brilliant throng; No wit like thine to wake the jest, No voice like thine to breathe the song; And none could guess, so gay thou art, That thou and I are far apart.

Alas! alas! how different flows With thee and me the time away! Not that I wish thee sad—heaven knows— Still if thou canst, be light and gay; I only know, that without thee The sun himself is dark to me.

Do I thus haste to hall and bower, Among the proud and gay to shine? Or deck my hair with gem and flower, To flatter other eyes than thine? Ah, no, with me love's smiles are past Thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last.



THE YOUNG INDIAN MAID.

There came a nymph dancing Gracefully, gracefully, Her eye a light glancing Like the blue sea; And while all this gladness Around her steps hung, Such sweet notes of sadness Her gentle lips sung, That ne'er while I live from my memory shall fade The song or the look of that young Indian maid.

Her zone of bells ringing Cheerily, cheerily, Chimed to her singing Light echoes of glee; But in vain did she borrow Of mirth the gay tone, Her voice spoke of sorrow, And sorrow alone. Nor e'er while I live from my memory shall fade The song or the look of that young Indian maid.



THE HOMEWARD MARCH.

Be still my heart: I hear them come: Those sounds announce my lover near: The march that brings our warriors home Proclaims he'll soon be here.

Hark, the distant tread, O'er the mountain's head, While hills and dales repeat the sound; And the forest deer Stand still to hear, As those echoing steps ring round.

Be still my heart. I hear them come, Those sounds that speak my soldier near; Those joyous steps seem winged fox home.— Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.

But hark, more faint the footsteps grow, And now they wind to distant glades; Not here their home,—alas, they go To gladden happier maids!

Like sounds in a dream, The footsteps seem, As down the hills they die away; And the march, whose song So pealed along, Now fades like a funeral lay.

'Tis past, 'tis o'er,—hush, heart, thy pain! And tho' not here, alas, they come, Rejoice for those, to whom that strain Brings sons and lovers home.



WAKE UP, SWEET MELODY.

Wake up, sweet melody! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power, One note of music, by moonlight's soft ray— Oh, 'tis worth thousands heard coldly by day. Then wake up, sweet melody! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power.

Ask the fond nightingale, When his sweet flower Loves most to hear his song, In her green bower? Oh, he will tell thee, thro' summer-nights long, Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song. Then wake up, sweet melody! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts Feel most thy power.



CALM BE THY SLEEP.

Calm be thy sleep as infant's slumbers! Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams! May every joy this bright world numbers Shed o'er thee their mingled beams! Or if, where Pleasure's wing hath glided, There ever must some pang remain, Still be thy lot with me divided,— Thine all the bliss and mine the pain!

Day and night my thoughts shall hover Round thy steps where'er they stray; As, even when clouds his idol cover, Fondly the Persian tracks its ray. If this be wrong, if Heaven offended By worship to its creature be, Then let my vows to both be blended, Half breathed to Heaven and half to thee.



THE EXILE.

Night waneth fast, the morning star Saddens with light the glimmering sea, Whose waves shall soon to realms afar Waft me from hope, from love, and thee. Coldly the beam from yonder sky Looks o'er the waves that onward stray; But colder still the stranger's eye To him whose home is far away

Oh, not at hour so chill and bleak, Let thoughts of me come o'er thy breast; But of the lost one think and speak, When summer suns sink calm to rest. So, as I wander, Fancy's dream Shall bring me o'er the sunset seas, Thy look in every melting beam, Thy whisper in each dying breeze.



THE FANCY FAIR.

Come, maids and youths, for here we sell All wondrous things of earth and air; Whatever wild romancers tell, Or poets sing, or lovers swear, You'll find at this our Fancy Fair.

Here eyes are made like stars to shine, And kept for years in such repair, That even when turned of thirty-nine, They'll hardly look the worse for wear, If bought at this our Fancy Fair.

We've lots of tears for bards to shower, And hearts that such ill usage bear, That, tho' they're broken every hour, They'll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear, If purchased at our Fancy Fair.

As fashions change in every thing, We've goods to suit each season's air, Eternal friendships for the spring, And endless loves for summer wear,— All sold at this our Fancy Fair.

We've reputations white as snow, That long will last if used with care, Nay, safe thro' all life's journey go, If packed and marked as "brittle ware,"— Just purchased at the Fancy Fair.



IF THOU WOULDST HAVE ME SING AND PLAY.

If thou wouldst have me sing and play, As once I played and sung, First take this time-worn lute away, And bring one freshly strung. Call back the time when pleasure's sigh First breathed among the strings; And Time himself, in flitting by. Made music with his wings.

But how is this? tho' new the lute, And shining fresh the chords, Beneath this hand they slumber mute, Or speak but dreamy words. In vain I seek the soul that dwelt Within that once sweet shell, Which told so warmly what it felt, And felt what naught could tell.

Oh, ask not then for passion's lay, From lyre so coldly strung; With this I ne'er can sing or play, As once I played and sung. No, bring that long-loved lute again,— Tho' chilled by years it be, If thou wilt call the slumbering strain, 'Twill wake again for thee.

Tho' time have frozen the tuneful stream Of thoughts that gushed along, One look from thee, like summer's beam, Will thaw them into song. Then give, oh give, that wakening ray, And once more blithe and young, Thy bard again will sing and play, As once he played and sung.



STILL WHEN DAYLIGHT.

Still when daylight o'er the wave Bright and soft its farewell gave, I used to hear, while light was falling, O'er the wave a sweet voice calling, Mournfully at distance calling.

Ah! once how blest that maid would come, To meet her sea-boy hastening home; And thro' the night those sounds repeating, Hail his bark with joyous greeting, Joyously his light bark greeting.

But, one sad night, when winds were high, Nor earth, nor heaven could hear her cry. She saw his boat come tossing over Midnight's wave,—but not her lover! No, never more her lover.

And still that sad dream loath to leave, She comes with wandering mind at eve, And oft we hear, when night is falling, Faint her voice thro' twilight calling, Mournfully at twilight calling.



THE SUMMER WEBS.

The summer webs that float and shine, The summer dews that fall, Tho' light they be, this heart of mine Is lighter still than all. It tells me every cloud is past Which lately seemed to lour; That Hope hath wed young Joy at last, And now's their nuptial hour!

With light thus round, within, above, With naught to wake one sigh, Except the wish that all we love Were at this moment nigh,— It seems as if life's brilliant sun Had stopt in full career, To make this hour its brightest one, And rest in radiance here.



MIND NOT THO' DAYLIGHT.

Mind not tho' daylight around us is breaking,— Who'd think now of sleeping when morn's but just waking? Sound the merry viol, and daylight or not, Be all for one hour in the gay dance forgot.

See young Aurora up heaven's hill advancing, Tho' fresh from her pillow, even she too is dancing: While thus all creation, earth, heaven, and sea. Are dancing around us, oh, why should not we?

Who'll say that moments we use thus are wasted? Such sweet drops of time only flow to be tasted; While hearts are high beating and harps full in tune, The fault is all morning's for coming so soon.



THEY MET BUT ONCE.

They met but once, in youth's sweet hour, And never since that day Hath absence, time, or grief had power To chase that dream away. They've seen the suns of other skies, On other shores have sought delight; But never more to bless their eyes Can come a dream so bright! They met but once,—a day was all Of Love's young hopes they knew; And still their hearts that day recall As fresh as then it flew.

Sweet dream of youth! oh, ne'er again Let either meet the brow They left so smooth and smiling then, Or see what it is now. For, Youth, the spell was only thine, From thee alone the enchantment flows, That makes the world around thee shine With light thyself bestows. They met but once,—oh, ne'er again Let either meet the brow They left so smooth and smiling then, Or see what it is now.



WITH MOONLIGHT BEAMING.

With moonlight beaming Thus o'er the deep, Who'd linger dreaming In idle sleep? Leave joyless souls to live by day,— Our life begins with yonder ray; And while thus brightly The moments flee, Our barks skim lightly The shining sea.

To halls of splendor Let great ones hie; Thro' light more tender Our pathways lie. While round, from banks of brook or lake, Our company blithe echoes make; And as we lend 'em Sweet word or strain, Still back they send 'em More sweet again.



CHILD'S SONG.

FROM A MASQUE.

I have a garden of my own, Shining with flowers of every hue; I loved it dearly while alone, But I shall love it more with you: And there the golden bees shall come, In summer-time at break of morn, And wake us with their busy hum Around the Siha's fragrant thorn.

I have a fawn from Aden's land, On leafy buds and berries nurst; And you shall feed him from your hand, Though he may start with fear at first. And I will lead you where he lies For shelter in the noontide heat; And you may touch his sleeping eyes, And feel his little silvery feet.



THE HALCYON HANGS O'ER OCEAN.

The halcyon hangs o'er ocean, The sea-lark skims the brine; This bright world's all in motion, No heart seems sad but mine.

To walk thro' sun-bright places, With heart all cold the while; To look in smiling faces, When we no more can smile;

To feel, while earth and heaven Around thee shine with bliss, To thee no light is given,— Oh, what a doom is this!



THE WORLD WAS HUSHT.

The world was husht, the moon above Sailed thro' ether slowly, When near the casement of my love, Thus I whispered lowly,— "Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep? "The field I seek to-morrow "Is one where man hath fame to reap, "And woman gleans but sorrow."

"Let battle's field be what it may. Thus spoke a voice replying, "Think not thy love, while thou'rt away, "Will sit here idly sighing. "No—woman's soul, if not for fame, "For love can brave all danger! Then forth from out the casement came A plumed and armed stranger.

A stranger? No; 'twas she, the maid, Herself before me beaming, With casque arrayed and falchion blade Beneath her girdle gleaming! Close side by side, in freedom's fight, That blessed morning found us; In Victory's light we stood ere night, And Love the morrow crowned us!



THE TWO LOVES.

There are two Loves, the poet sings, Both born of Beauty at a birth: The one, akin to heaven, hath wings, The other, earthly, walks on earth. With this thro' bowers below we play, With that thro' clouds above we soar; With both, perchance, may lose our way:— Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore?

The one, when tempted down from air, At Pleasure's fount to lave his lip, Nor lingers long, nor oft will dare His wing within the wave to dip. While plunging deep and long beneath, The other bathes him o'er and o'er In that sweet current, even to death:— Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore?

The boy of heaven, even while he lies In Beauty's lap, recalls his home; And when most happy, inly sighs For something happier still to come. While he of earth, too fully blest With this bright world to dream of more, Sees all his heaven on Beauty's breast:— Then, tell me which, Tell me which shall we adore?

The maid who heard the poet sing These twin-desires of earth and sky, And saw while one inspired his string, The other glistened in his eye,— To name the earthlier boy ashamed, To chose the other fondly loath, At length all blushing she exclaimed,— "Ask not which, "Oh, ask not which—we'll worship both.

"The extremes of each thus taught to shun, "With hearts and souls between them given, "When weary of this earth with one, "We'll with the other wing to heaven." Thus pledged the maid her vow of bliss; And while one Love wrote down the oath, The other sealed it with a kiss; And Heaven looked on, Heaven looked on and hallowed both.



THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY.

Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moonlight, Are played by me, the merry little Sprite, Who wing thro' air from the camp to the court, From king to clown, and of all make sport; Singing, I am the Sprite Of the merry midnight, Who laugh at weak mortals and love the moonlight.

To a miser's bed, where he snoring slept And dreamt of his cash, I slyly crept; Chink, chink o'er his pillow like money I rang, And he waked to catch—but away I sprang, Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.

I saw thro' the leaves, in a damsel's bower, She was waiting her love at that starlight hour: "Hist—hist!" quoth I, with an amorous sigh, And she flew to the door, but away flew I, Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.

While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love, Like a pair of blue meteors I stared from above, And he swooned—for he thought 'twas the ghost, poor man! Of his lady's eyes, while away I ran, Singing, I am the Sprite, etc.



BEAUTY AND SONG.

Down in yon summer vale, Where the rill flows. Thus said a Nightingale To his loved Rose:— "Tho' rich the pleasures "Of song's sweet measures, "Vain were its melody, "Rose, without thee."

Then from the green recess Of her night-bower, Beaming with bashfulness, Spoke the bright flower:— "Tho' morn should lend her "Its sunniest splendor, "What would the Rose be, "Unsung by thee?"

Thus still let Song attend Woman's bright way; Thus still let woman lend Light to the lay. Like stars thro' heaven's sea Floating in harmony Beauty should glide along Circled by Song.



WHEN THOU ART NIGH.

When thou art nigh, it seems A new creation round; The sun hath fairer beams, The lute a softer sound. Tho' thee alone I see, And hear alone thy sigh, 'Tis light, 'tis song to me, Tis all—when thou art nigh.

When thou art nigh, no thought Of grief comes o'er my heart; I only think—could aught But joy be where thou art? Life seems a waste of breath, When far from thee I sigh; And death—ay, even death Were sweet, if thou wert nigh.



SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN.

I come from a land in the sun bright deep, Where golden gardens grow; Where the winds of the north, be calmed in sleep, Their conch-shells never blow.[1] Haste to that holy Isle with me, Haste—haste!

So near the track of the stars are we, That oft on night's pale beams The distant sounds of their harmony Come to our ear, like dreams. Then haste to that holy Isle with me, etc.

The Moon too brings her world so nigh, That when the night-seer looks To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky, He can number its hills and brooks. Then, haste, etc.

To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres[2] By day, by night, belong; And the breath we draw from his living fires, We give him back in song. Then, haste, etc.

From us descends the maid who brings To Delos gifts divine; And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings To glitter on Delphi's shrine. Then haste to that holy Isle with me, Haste—haste!

[1] On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch shell placed in the hands of Boreas.—See Stuart's Antiquities. "The north wind," says Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, "never blows with them."

[2] Hecataeus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters.



THOU BIDST ME SING.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee In other days ere joy had left this brow; But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be, How different feels the heart that breathes them now! The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same We saw this morning on its stem so gay; But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine, How many a joy and pain o'er both have past,— The joy, a light too precious long to shine,— The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last. And tho' that lay would like the voice of home Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh— Ah! not, as then, for fancied woes to come, But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by.



CUPID ARMED.

Place the helm on thy brow, In thy hand take the spear;— Thou art armed, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near. March on! march on! thy shaft and bow Were weak against such charms; March on! march on! so proud a foe Scorns all but martial arms.

See the darts in her eyes, Tipt with scorn, how they shine! Every shaft, as it flies, Mocking proudly at thine. March on! march on! thy feathered darts Soft bosoms soon might move; But ruder arms to ruder hearts Must teach what 'tis to love. Place the helm on thy brow; In thy hand take the spear,— Thou art armed, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near.



ROUND THE WORLD GOES.

Round the world goes, by day and night, While with it also round go we; And in the flight of one day's light An image of all life's course we see. Round, round, while thus we go round, The best thing a man can do, Is to make it, at least, a merry-go-round, By—sending the wine round too.

Our first gay stage of life is when Youth in its dawn salutes the eye— Season of bliss! Oh, who wouldn't then Wish to cry, "Stop!" to earth and sky? But, round, round, both boy and girl Are whisked thro' that sky of blue; And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl, If—their heads didn't whirl round too.

Next, we enjoy our glorious noon, Thinking all life a life of light; But shadows come on, 'tis evening soon, And ere we can say, "How short!"—'tis night. Round, round, still all goes round, Even while I'm thus singing to you; And the best way to make it a merry-go-round, Is to—chorus my song round too.



OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND BLEST.

Oh, do not look so bright and blest, For still there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near. There lurks a dread in all delight, A shadow near each ray, That warns us then to fear their flight, When most we wish their stay. Then look not thou so bright and blest, For ah! there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near.

Why is it thus that fairest things The soonest fleet and die?— That when most light is on their wings, They're then but spread to fly! And, sadder still, the pain will stay— The bliss no more appears; As rainbows take their light away, And leave us but the tears! Then look not thou so bright and blest, For ah! there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest, That grief is then most near.



THE MUSICAL BOX.

"Look here," said Rose, with laughing eyes, "Within this box, by magic hid, "A tuneful Sprite imprisoned lies, "Who sings to me whene'er he's bid. "Tho' roving once his voice and wing, "He'll now lie still the whole day long; "Till thus I touch the magic spring— "Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song!" (A symphony.)

"Ah, Rose," I cried, "the poet's lay "Must ne'er even Beauty's slave become; "Thro' earth and air his song may stray, "If all the while his heart's at home. "And tho' in freedom's air he dwell, "Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows, "Touch but the spring thou knowst so well, "And—hark, how sweet the love-song flows!" (A symphony.)

Thus pleaded I for freedom's right; But when young Beauty takes the field, And wise men seek defence in flight, The doom of poets is to yield. No more my heart the enchantress braves, I'm now in Beauty's prison hid; The Sprite and I are fellow slaves, And I, too, sing whene'er I'm bid.



WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN.

When to sad Music silent you listen, And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew, Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten A sweet holy charm that mirth never knew. But when some lively strain resounding Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow, Then the young reindeer o'er the hills bounding Was ne'er in its mirth so graceful as thou.

When on the skies at midnight thou gazest. A lustre so pure thy features then wear, That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest, We feel 'tis thy home thou'rt looking for there. But when the word for the gay dance is given, So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth, Oh then we exclaim, "Ne'er leave earth for heaven, "But linger still here, to make heaven of earth."



THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

Fly swift, my light gazelle, To her who now lies waking, To hear thy silver bell The midnight silence breaking. And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet, Beneath her lattice springing, Ah, well she'll know how sweet The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no—not words, for they But half can tell love's feeling; Sweet flowers alone can say What passion fears revealing. A once bright rose's withered leaf, A towering lily broken,— Oh these may paint a grief No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle, The wreath thou speedest over Yon moonlight dale, to tell My lady how I love her. And, what to her will sweeter be Than gems the richest, rarest,— From Truth's immortal tree[1] One fadeless leaf thou bearest.

[1] The tree called in the East, Amrita, or the Immortal.



THE DAWN IS BREAKING O'ER US.

The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue! We've day's long light before us, What sport shall we pursue? The hunt o'er hill and lea? The sail o'er summer sea? Oh let not hour so sweet Unwinged by pleasure fleet. The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue! We've days long light before us, What sport shall we pursue?

But see, while we're deciding, What morning sport to play, The dial's hand is gliding, And morn hath past away! Ah, who'd have thought that noon Would o'er us steal so soon,— That morn's sweet hour of prime Would last so short a time? But come, we've day before us, Still heaven looks bright and blue; Quick, quick, ere eve comes o'er us, What sport shall we pursue?

Alas! why thus delaying? We're now at evening's hour; Its farewell beam is playing O'er hill and wave and bower. That light we thought would last, Behold, even now 'tis past; And all our morning dreams Have vanisht with its beams But come! 'twere vain to borrow Sad lessons from this lay, For man will be to-morrow— Just what he's been to-day.



UNPUBLISHED SONGS.

ETC.



ASK NOT IF STILL I LOVE.

Ask not if still I love, Too plain these eyes have told thee; Too well their tears must prove How near and dear I hold thee. If, where the brightest shine, To see no form but thine, To feel that earth can show No bliss above thee,— If this be love, then know That thus, that thus, I love thee.

'Tis not in pleasure's idle hour That thou canst know affection's power. No, try its strength in grief or pain; Attempt as now its bonds to sever, Thou'lt find true love's a chain That binds forever!



DEAR? YES.

Dear? yes, tho' mine no more, Even this but makes thee dearer; And love, since hope is o'er, But draws thee nearer.

Change as thou wilt to me, The same thy charm must be; New loves may come to weave Their witchery o'er thee, Yet still, tho' false, believe That I adore thee, yes, still adore thee. Think'st thou that aught but death could end A tie not falsehood's self can rend? No, when alone, far off I die, No more to see, no more cares thee, Even then, my life's last sigh Shall be to bless thee, yes, still to bless thee.



UNBIND THEE, LOVE.

Unbind thee, love, unbind thee, love, From those dark ties unbind thee; Tho' fairest hand the chain hath wove, Too long its links have twined thee. Away from earth!—thy wings were made In yon mid-sky to hover, With earth beneath their dove-like shade, And heaven all radiant over.

Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy, Too long thy soul is sleeping; And thou mayst from this minute's joy Wake to eternal weeping. Oh, think, this world is not for thee; Tho' hard its links to sever; Tho' sweet and bright and dear they be, Break or thou'rt lost for ever.



THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE.

A BUFFALO SONG.

There's something strange, I know not what, Come o'er me, Some phantom I've for ever got Before me. I look on high and in the sky 'Tis shining; On earth, its light with all things bright Seems twining. In vain I try this goblin's spells To sever; Go where I will, it round me dwells For ever.

And then what tricks by day and night It plays me; In every shape the wicked sprite Waylays me. Sometimes like two bright eyes of blue 'Tis glancing; Sometimes like feet, in slippers neat, Comes dancing. By whispers round of every sort I'm taunted. Never was mortal man, in short, So haunted.



NOT FROM THEE.

Not from thee the wound should come, No, not from thee. Care not what or whence my doom, So not from thee! Cold triumph! first to make This heart thy own; And then the mirror break Where fixt thou shin'st alone. Not from thee the wound should come, Oh, not from thee. I care not what, or whence, my doom, So not from thee.

Yet no—my lips that wish recall; From thee, from thee— If ruin o'er this head must fall, 'Twill welcome be. Here to the blade I bare This faithful heart; Wound deep—thou'lt find that there, In every pulse thou art. Yes from thee I'll bear it all: If ruin be The doom that o'er this heart must fall, 'Twere sweet from thee.



GUESS, GUESS.

I love a maid, a mystic maid, Whose form no eyes but mine can see; She comes in light, she comes in shade, And beautiful in both is she. Her shape in dreams I oft behold, And oft she whispers in my ear Such words as when to others told, Awake the sigh, or wring the tear; Then guess, guess, who she, The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow, Come o'er me in my darkest ways; And feel as if her voice, even now, Were echoing far off my lays. There is no scene of joy or woe But she doth gild with influence bright; And shed o'er all so rich a glow As makes even tears seem full of light: Then guess, guess, who she, The lady of my love, may be.



WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED.

When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er Has rosy mother's isles of light, Was cruising off the Paphian shore, A sail at sunset hove in sight. "A chase, a chase! my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

Aloft the winged sailors sprung, And, swarming up the mast like bees, The snow-white sails expanding flung, Like broad magnolias to the breeze. "Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

The chase was o'er—the bark was caught, The winged crew her freight explored; And found 'twas just as Love had thought, For all was contraband aboard. "A prize, a prize, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.