STANZAS TO

Anonymous.

OH, lady! I have seen thee often,
But never knew thee half so fair;
I've mark'd the moon thy beauty soften,
And loved the gilding fashion's glare.

And now, beside this lamp alone,

Why beams that eye so bright to me; Why has❜t not so on others shone,— Why were they so unbless'd by thee?

Another's eye as dark as thine

Hath flash'd a soul perhaps as high; And others' locks as lovely twine

On brows would soothe as deep a sigh.

As snow-surpassing bosoms heave

With words as sweet and tones as swelling,
As heaven-descended footsteps leave
As warm a heart, as sad a dwelling.

Thee or thine I deem they are not;

I'm bound to thee, none can unbind;

For all but for thyself I care not,

Thyself alone-thy self of mind.

Lov'st thou me, loveliest lady! say

?

Thou dost thou dost-that blessed tear, That blush-oh, tell me!-yet delay,

'Tis what I dare not hope to hear.

4

Yes! now I know that look of light;
'Tis love, forgotten be it never;
It turns to day my life of night;

Oh live! oh live!-that look for ever!

THE TEAR.

Harral.

'Twas no unmanly tear that fell,

No coward drop that stain'd my cheek:
My soul quails not;-the sordid spell
Of worldly suffering I can break-

Contemptuous break-and 'midst the storm,
And 'midst the wreck of fortune smile;
Nor let one recreant sigh deform

A breast that's free from fraud or guile.

'Twas not in grief the trembler fell-
Though many a sorrowing tear is due
To her whose bosom's kindly swell
Responsive met a flame as true.

She sleeps in peace, and I shall sleep,
Perchance, beneath the self-same sod!
Yes, I shall sleep, and thou wilt weep,
Yet humbly kiss OUR FATHER's rod.

Thy balmy tear upon my grave

Would soothe, if aught might soothe in death,

A spirit that could sternly brave

Earth's evils in its latest breath.

Then chide not for the tear that fell-
It burst from no ignoble source;
The heart's warm throb it rush'd to tell-
The heart's best feeling urged its course.

Grateful it flow'd; that brother's tear
A seraph might have joy'd to own!
Grateful it flow'd-soul-fraught-sincere-
An offering at a sister's throne!

In bliss supreme that sweet tear fell!
Pure token of as pure a love
As eyer 'woke the tuneful shell-
The golden harp-of saint above!

Accept that tear, nor deem that he

By whom 'twas shed ere bore a thought

A hope-a fear- unworthy thee,

That thou or thine could wish unsought.

CAROLINE.

I'LL bid my hyacinth to blow,
I'll teach my grotto green to be,
And sing my true-love, all below
The holly bower and myrtle tree.

Campbell.

There, all his wild-wood scents to bring,
The sweet south wind shall wander by;
And, with the music of his wing,
Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,
Thou spirit of a milder clime!

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower,
Of mountain heath and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,
Sweet comrade of the rosy day,
Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,
Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay!

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd,
Whatever isles of ocean fann'd,
Come to my blossom-woven shade,
Thou wandering wind of Fairy Land;

For sure, from some enchanted isle,

Where heaven and love their sabbath hold, Where pure and happy spirits smile, Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould :

From some green Eden of the deep,
Where pleasure's sigh alone is heaved,
Where tears of rapture lovers weep,
Endear'd, undoubting, undeceived.

From some sweet Paradise afar,

Thy music wanders, distant, lost Where Nature lights her leading star, And love is never, never cross'd.

h! gentle gale of Eden bowers,
f back thy rosy feet should roam,
To revel with the cloudless hours,

n Nature's more propitious home

Name to thy loved Elysian groves,
That o'er enchanted spirits twine,
A fairer form than cherub loves,
And let the name be Caroline.

TO HELEN.

Horace Twiss.

THOUGH my visions of life are soon to depart,
Yet sigh not, dear Helen, thus deeply for me:
The ling'ring pulsations that throb in my heart,
Are only its fond apprehensions for thee.
Oh! sad are the perils that compass thy way,
For a season of sorrow and darkness is nigh :-
When the glow-worm appears at the close of the day,
Her lustre betrays her, and dooms her to die.

For me, love, no sweet wasting odours shall burn,
No marble invoke thee to deck it with flowers;

My ashes shall rest in a crystalline urn,

And that urn be abroad in the sun and the showers.

It shall lightly be swept by the cool-blowing gale,

When the gay-colour'd evening shines cheerfully through,

Around it the shadows of twilight shall sail,

And the mists of the morning embalm it in dew.

P