That seeketh its rest in some deep dark lake, There 'neath the Sun's mild beam I'd dwell, Maid with the heart of merry glee, That carries thy lute by some loved stream, And inspire the little feathered throat With the gladd'ning 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 In th' infernal clime at the midnight hour!— Spirit of Song and Melody! There would I offer myself to thee,— With no storms of care within my breast; 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! Thy breathing softness, and the hue 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 The Early Comb. If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong- Beneath my eye, in my fatherland, 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 I tended it with a lover's pride; It seemed to weep o'er our parting scene Alas, that Summer should not be That Nature's best and loveliest Must wither in an hour! 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; And smiled, in sorrow's joy, a smile Which seemed to say, our sister flower Oh, ever. thus, the fairest first In death's embrace must fall For when the heart too fondly doats It wakes us from our idol dream— To anguish and to thought! |