"Tho' roving once his voice and wing, "He'll now lie still the whole day long; "Till thus I touch the magic spring-- "Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song!"

_(A symphony.)_

"Ah, Rose," I cried, "the poet's lay "Must ne'er even Beauty's slave become; "Thro' earth and air his song may stray, "If all the while his heart's at home.

"And tho' in freedom's air he dwell, "Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows, "Touch but the spring thou knowst so well, "And--hark, how sweet the love-song flows!"

_(A symphony.)_

Thus pleaded I for freedom's right; But when young Beauty takes the field, And wise men seek defence in flight, The doom of poets is to yield.

No more my heart the enchantress braves, I'm now in Beauty's prison hid; The Sprite and I are fellow slaves, And I, too, sing whene'er I'm bid.

WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN.

When to sad Music silent you listen, And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew, Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten A sweet holy charm that mirth never knew.

But when some lively strain resounding Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow, Then the young reindeer o'er the hills bounding Was ne'er in its mirth so graceful as thou.

When on the skies at midnight thou gazest.

A l.u.s.tre so pure thy features then wear, That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest, We feel 'tis thy home thou'rt looking for there.

But when the word for the gay dance is given, So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth, Oh then we exclaim, "Ne'er leave earth for heaven, "But linger still here, to make heaven of earth."

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

Fly swift, my light gazelle, To her who now lies waking, To hear thy silver bell The midnight silence breaking.

And, when thou com'st, with gladsome feet, Beneath her lattice springing, Ah, well she'll know how sweet The words of love thou'rt bringing.

Yet, no--not words, for they But half can tell love's feeling; Sweet flowers alone can say What pa.s.sion fears revealing.

A once bright rose's withered leaf, A towering lily broken,-- Oh these may paint a grief No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle, The wreath thou speedest over Yon moonlight dale, to tell My lady how I love her.

And, what to her will sweeter be Than gems the richest, rarest,-- From Truth's immortal tree[1]

One fadeless leaf thou bearest.

[1] The tree called in the East, Amrita, or the Immortal.

THE DAWN IS BREAKING O'ER US.

The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue!

We've day's long light before us, What sport shall we pursue?

The hunt o'er hill and lea?

The sail o'er summer sea?

Oh let not hour so sweet Unwinged by pleasure fleet.

The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue!

We've days long light before us, What sport shall we pursue?

But see, while we're deciding, What morning sport to play, The dial's hand is gliding, And morn hath past away!

Ah, who'd have thought that noon Would o'er us steal so soon,-- That morn's sweet hour of prime Would last so short a time?

But come, we've day before us, Still heaven looks bright and blue; Quick, quick, ere eve comes o'er us, What sport shall we pursue?

Alas! why thus delaying?

We're now at evening's hour; Its farewell beam is playing O'er hill and wave and bower.

That light we thought would last, Behold, even now 'tis past; And all our morning dreams Have vanisht with its beams But come! 'twere vain to borrow Sad lessons from this lay, For man will be to-morrow-- Just what he's been to-day.

UNPUBLISHED SONGS.

ETC.

ASK NOT IF STILL I LOVE.

Ask not if still I love, Too plain these eyes have told thee; Too well their tears must prove How near and dear I hold thee.

If, where the brightest shine, To see no form but thine, To feel that earth can show No bliss above thee,-- If this be love, then know That thus, that thus, I love thee.

'Tis not in pleasure's idle hour That thou canst know affection's power.

No, try its strength in grief or pain; Attempt as now its bonds to sever, Thou'lt find true love's a chain That binds forever!