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.

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.