Sits the dim, shadowy thing which only haunts
Where hearts are wasted; and thine eye is sad
As moonlight, when it looks upon a grave!

And thy soft bosom-where my head has lain,

And dreamt youth's dream,-heaves with unquiet motion!

And thou art weeping! (there are those who weep
In joy, but then, they never look as thou dost!)
Why hast thou come so late!—I waited long,
How very long!—and thou wert by my side,
Sometimes in dreams!--(how sad it is to dream,
And play with shadows-flung, perhaps, from

graves!

Why come by night, who may not come by day!
Why mock for moments, who were true for years!)
-How long and heavily, from day to day,
I hung upon the hope that grows from fear!
But thou hast come, at last!—it is too late!
I cannot love again !-thou still art young,
And fair-but as a vestal!--and the row,

My pale Floranthe! is upon thy heart!

Thou canst not love again !—'tis all too late!

Sit here, Floranthe !-come to me, mine own!
My friend! (why dost thou start ?) and I will sing
The air I used to sing thee, long ago,

And touch our old guitar;—the strings are new!
I would not that the chords which told of love
Should tell its death !-they have been broken long,
And other hands than thine have strung my lyre,
Since thou didst leave me.-Listen to my lay!

We meet !—but not as, once, we met!

Our better days are o'er,

And, dearly as I prize thee, yet,

I cannot love thee more :

My young and precious hopes were wept,

With many tears, away,

And, since thy faith so long has slept,

It wakes too late, to-day!

Oh! sighs and smiles are idle, all,
To raise the thoughts of youth,
They come and go, without a call,
They linger but with truth;-

Like roses

-if to-night they die,

To-morrow's sun is vain;

And oh ! like birds-if once let fly,
They never come again!

My heart has found no treasure, yet,
Like what it lost with thee,

And years of long and lone regret

Have made me what you see!—

Then, dearly welcome back again,

But ask no lover's vow;

The world-that had not won it, then,

May not restore it now!

THE CONVICT SHIP.

MORN on the waters!—and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light!

O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

And her pennant streams onward, like hope, in the gale!
The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along!
Upward she points to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily, aloft in the shrouds!
Onwards she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters-away, and away!

Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!—
Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high,—
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,

Oh! there be hearts that are breaking, below!

Night on the waves!—and the moon is on high, Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky; Treading its depths, in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light! Look to the waters!—asleep on their breast,

Seems not the ship like an island of rest?

Bright and alone on the shadowy main,

Like 'a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain!
Who-as she smiles in the silvery light,

Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep,-as the moon in the sky,—
A phantom of beauty!-could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten lie bursting, within!