That seeketh its rest in some deep dark lake,
Where silence can never its halo break.

There 'neath the Sun's mild beam I'd dwell,
With pure heart's ease and one soft blue belle,
Whose heart would beat ever in unison
With my own, alas! too sensitive one;
Our affections twined like the ivy branch,
And chilled by no icy avalanche
Of thwarting jar or ruffling frown,
But warm and soft as the eider down.
There, Spirit of Song! beneath thy sway,
How blissful I'd pass the enraptured day!

Spirit of Song and Melody!
Maid with the heart of merry glee,
That carries thy lute by some loved stream,
And charms from its path the morning beam-
That loves with the minstrel grey to dwell,
Or sit 'neath a tree in some mountain dell,
And inspire the little feathered throat
With the gladdning strain and the honied note,
That wandereth arm-in-arm with Love,
Nor leaves him even in the world above,-
That bathes thyself in the rippling wave,
And sighs thro' the grass o'er some hapless grave,
That floats on the calm wind, wild and free,
As it swims thro' the boughs of the sweet rose tree,--
And melts on the bosom of tender eve
In music and sweets the sun weeps to leave!

Spirit that wandered by Sappho's side, Where the nightingales sing, and streamlets glide;

That with Orpheus hand in hand did play
That harp that wiled ev’n the waters astray,
And deigned to show thy magic power
In th' infernal clime at the midnight hour! -

Spirit of Song and Melody!
There would I offer myself to thee,
The happiest being by nature blest,
With no storms of care within my breast;
Heedless of wealth—to its wants unknown-
A world in my thoughts, and that world my own.

Oh Heaven! but grant me this single desire ; Give the monarch his sceptre, the minstrel his lyre ; Give the miser his gold, and the mighty his power; More rich shall I be with this gift for my dower.

To a Young Lady,

On presenting her some Flowers.

Maiden, loved one of my

heart ! Hither turn thine eyes of blue ; See this blooming rose impart

Thy breathing softness, and the hue

Upon thy downy cheek. The dew, Which this bright bud still loves to sip,

Seems as if last night it drew All its sweetness from thy lip.

Leave the rose its borrowed grace,
Look

upon this lily now! Vainly here I strive to trace

The whiteness of thy breast and brow,

For where are th' azure veins that flow; Along thy forehead's smooth expanse ?

It lacks the dazzling beams that glow In thy mild eye's radiant glance.

But hither, maiden, turn thine eyes

On this little simple flower ; Rich in no transcendent dyes,

Modest as the morning hour ;

Still 'tis worth a monarch's dower To those who faith and virtue prize,

For, with a lowly voice of power-“Forget me not!” it constant cries.

The Early Tomb.

If she loveď rashly, her life paid for wrong

A heavy price must all pay who thus err, In some shape. Let none think to fly the danger, For soon or late love is his own avenger.—Byron.

Beneath my eye, in my fatherland,

A simple violet grew; And oft in extacy I gazed

On its sparkling gems of blue.
'Twas a Peri's gift to an earthly bower,

In form so rich and rare.
And the brightest tints of Paradise

Were all concentered there.

I tended it with a lover's pride ;

The bud became a flower ;
Its opening beauties none could vie

In fragrance or in power.
Methought it bloomed for me alone,

And when its leaves were wet, It seemed to weep o'er our parting scene

Those dew-drops of regret.

Alas, that Summer should not be

Without a passing shower!
That Nature's best and loveliest

Must wither in an hour !
My violet went to other hands

More worthy far than mine ;

I'd seen it in its sunniest hours ;

I saw not its decline.

I asked them where they laid my flower ;

One pointed to the earth;
And smiled, in sorrow's joy, a smile

Of sad sepulchral mirth;
Which seemed to say, our sister flower

Is far from tears and sighs,
Transferr'd by Nature's Gardner

To a bower beyond the skies.

Oh, ever, thus, the fairest first

In death's embrace must fall ;-
'Tis Heav'n that destines for our good

This gaddest sight of all;
For when the heart too fondly doats

With love too finely wrought,
It wakes us from our idol dream

To anguish and to thought!