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 wither'd leaf,
A tow'ring 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'

One fadeless leaf thou bearest.

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 Unwing'd by pleasure fleet. 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?

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

But see, while we're deciding,
What morning sport to play,
The dial's hand is gliding,

And morn hath pass'd 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, ev'n now, 'tis past; And all our morning dreams Have vanish'd 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.

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 pow'r. 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 for ever!

DEAR? YES.

DEAR? yes, though mine no more, Ev'n this but makes thee dearer;

And love, since hope is o'er,

But draws thee nearer.

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.

I 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 fix'd thou shin'st alone.

Not from thee the wound should com
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,

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 ev'n tears seem full of light: Then guess, guess, who she, The lady of my love, may be.

WHEN LOVE, WHO RUL'D. WHEN Love, who rul'd as Admiral o'er His 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.

66

Safe stow'd in many a package there,
And labell'd slyly o'er, as Glass,"
Were lots of all th' illegal ware,

Love's Custom-House forbids to pass. "O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False curls they found, of every hue,
With rosy blushes ready made;
And teeth of ivory, good as new,

For veterans in the smiling trade. "Ho ho, ho ho, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

Mock sighs, too,-kept in bags for use, Like breezes bought of Lapland seers,— Lay ready here to be let loose,

When wanted, in young spinsters' ears. “Ha ha, ha ha, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False papers next on board were found,
Sham invoices of flames and darts,
Professedly for Paphos bound,

But meant for Hymen's golden marts. "For shame, for shame, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Nay, still to every fraud awake,

Those pirates all Love's signals knew,

And hoisted oft his flag, to make

Rich wards and heiresses bring-to.' "A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!” Said Love, the little Admiral.

"This must not be," the boy exclaims, "In vain I rule the Paphian seas, "If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names "Are lent to cover frauds like these. "Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Each Cupid stood with lighted match-
A broadside struck the smuggling foe,
And swept the whole unhallow'd batch
Of falsehood to the depths below.
“Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!”
Said Love, the little Admiral.

STILL THOU FLIEST.

STILL thou fliest, and still I woo thee,
Lovely phantom,—all in vain;
Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,
Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain.
Such doom, of old, that youth betided,

Who woo'd, he thought, some angel's charms,
But found a cloud that from him glided,—
As thou dost from these out-stretch'd arms.

Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest,"
Ere thy light hath vanish'd by;
And 'tis when thou look'st divinest
Thou art still more sure to fly.
Ev'n as the lightning, that, dividing

The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me," Then flits again, its splendour hiding,— Ev'n such the glimpse I catch of thee.

THEN FIRST FROM LOVE.

THEN first from Love, in Nature's bow'rs,
Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flow'rs,
To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,

Till Passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew
To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on, Till. lo, one touch his art defies;

1 "TO BRING TO, to check the course of a ship."-Falconer.

BRIGHT moon, that high in heav'n art shining,
All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night
Thy own Endymion lay reclining,

And thou would'st wake him with a kiss of light!

By all the bliss thy beam discovers,

By all those visions far too bright for day, Which dreaming bards and waking lovers Behold, this night, beneath thy ling'ring ray,

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,

Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea, Till Anthe, in this bow'r, hath given

Beneath thy beam, her long-vow'd kiss to me. Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,

Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide; Let Love but in this bow'r be lighted,

Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.

DREAMING FOR EVER.

DREAMING for ever, vainly dreaming,
Life to the last pursues its flight;
Day hath its visions fairly beaming,
But false as those of night.

The one illusion, the other real,

But both the same brief dreams at last; And when we grasp the bliss ideal,

Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,

Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom Flit o'er its face till night is closingEmblem of life's short doom! But though, by turns, thus dark and shining, "Tis still unlike man's changeful day, Whose light returns not, once declining, Whose cloud, once come, will stay.

THOUGH LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.

A SONG OF THE ALPS.

THOUGH lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,
Though like the lark's its soaring music be,
Thou'lt find ev'n here some mournful note that tells
How near such April joy to weeping dwells.
"Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oft'nest steal
Those sadd'ning thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;
And music never half so sweet appears,
As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay-
It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,
Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath
Most warms the surface, feel most sad beneath.
The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears
Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,-
And passion's pow'r can never lend the glow
Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.

THE RUSSIAN LOVER.

FLEETLY o'er the moonlight snows Speed we to my lady's bow'r; Swift our sledge as lightning goes,

Nor shall stop till morning's hour. Bright, my steed, the northern star Lights us from yon jewell'd skies; But, to greet us, brighter far,

Morn shall bring my lady's eyes.

Lovers, lull'd in sunny bow'rs,
Sleeping out their dream of time,
Know not half the bliss that's ours,
In this snowy, icy clime.
Like yon star that livelier gleams
From the frosty heavens around,
Love himself the keener beams

When with snows of coyness crown'd.

Fleet then on, my merry steed,

Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale; What can match a lover's speed?

See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale! Brightly hath the northern star

Lit us from yon radiant skies; But, behold, how brighter far

Yonder shine my lady's eyes!

AT NIGHT.

Ar night, when all is still around,
How sweet to hear the distant sound

Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet

That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say
""Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,
Though still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress,
With those we love exchang'd at night!

FANNY, DEAREST.

YES! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh;
And every smile on my cheek should tart
To tears when thou art nigh.

But, between love, and wine, and sleep,
So busy a life I live,

That even the time it would take to weep
Is more than my heart can give.
Then wish me not to despair and pine,

Fanny, dearest of all the dears!

The Love that's order'd to bathe in wine, Would be sure to take cold in tears.

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny dearest, thy image lies;

But, ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimm'd too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,

Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright

That I keep my eye-beams clear. Then wait no longer till tears shall flowFanny, dearest! the hope is vain; If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, I shall never attempt it with rain.

SONG.

WHERE is the heart that would not give
Years of drowsy days and nights,
One little hour, like this, to live-
Full, to the brim, of life's delights?

Look, look around This fairy ground,