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 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
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 Comb.

If she loved 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 Gard'ner
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 saddest 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!