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STANZAS. They say that the light of her eyes is gone, That her voice is low, and her cheek is wan; That her looks are sad, and strange, and wild, Yet meek as the looks of a sinless child. For the melting glance of her soft blue eye Is chill'd by cold insanity; And the beauty that her bright form wore, Is the shrine of a living soul no more. And her words discourse not music sent From reason's govern'd instrument; But, borne by her troubled fancies, stray Like notes of the harp which the wild winds play. I would not look on her alter'd brow, Nor her eye, so dim and soulless now; I would not view her pale, pale cheek, Nor hear her, in her madness, speak; Nor see her smile, she knows not why, While her tears flow down unmeaningly; Nor her vacant gaze, the piteous token Of a brain o'erwrought, and a young heart broken. No-on these things I would not look, For the brightest gift in Fortune's book; For she was join' with the fairest things That rose in my youih's imaginings. And oh! how oft have I turn'd away From a brighter eye and a cheek more gay, That soul might drink, to sweet excess, The light of her pensive loveliness. But her languid eye shall charm no more,-. Her smiles and her tears--they are nearly o'er; For fond hopes lost, and her heart o'erladen, Have crush'd, in her bloom, the guiltless maiden.




I LOVE to set me on some steep
That overhangs the billowy deep,

And hear the waters roar;
I love to see the big waves fly,
And swell their bosoms to the sky,

Then burst upon the shore.
I love, when seated on its brow,
To look o'er all the world below,

the distant vale;
From thence to see the waving corn
With yellow hue the hills adorn,

And bend before the gale.
I love far downward to behold
The shepherd with his bleating fold,

And hear the tinkling sound
Of little bell and mellow flute,
Wafted on zephyrs soft, now mute,

Then swell in echoes round.

I love to range the valleys too,
And towering hills from thence to view

Which rear their heads on high,
When naught beside, around, is seen
But one extended space between,

And overhead the sky.
I love to see, at close of day,
Spread o'er the hills the sun's broad ray,

While rolling down the west;
When every cloud in rich attire,
And half the sky, that seems on fire,

In purple robes is dress’d.
I love, when evening veils the day,
And Luna shines with silver ray,
To cast a glance around,

And see ten thousand worlds of light
Shine, ever new, and ever bright,

O'er the vast vault profound.
I love to let wild fancy stray,
And walk the spangled Milky Way,

Up to the shining height,
Where thousand thousand burning rays
Mingle in one eternal blaze,

And charm the ravish'd sight.
I love from thence to take my flight,
Far downward on the beams of light,

And reach my native plain,
Just as the flaming orb of day
Drives night, and mists, and shades away,
And cheers the world again.



Yes, Music hath the key of Memory;
And thoughts and visions buried deep and long,
Come, at the summons of its sweetness, nigh.

MYSTERIOUS keeper of the key,
That opes the gates to Memory,
Oft in the wildest simplest strain,
We live o'er years of bliss again!
The sun-bright hopes of early Youth,
Love-in its first deep hour of truth-
And dreams of Life's delightful morn,
Are on thy seraph-pinions borne!
To the Enthusiast's heart thy tone
Breathes of the lost and lovely one;
And calls back moments brief as dear-
When last 't was wasted on his ear!

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The exile listens to the song
Once heard his native bowers among;
And straightway on his visions rise
Hope's sunny slopes and cloudless skies !
The Warrior, from the strife retired,
By Music's stirring strains inspired,
Turns him to deeds of glory done,
To dangers 'scaped, and battles won!
Enchantress sweet of smiles and tears,
Spell of the dreams of banish'd years,
Mysterious keeper of the key
That opes the gate of Memory;
'Tis thine to bid sad hearts be gay,
Yet chase the smile of Mirth away;
Joy's sparkling eye in tears to steep,
Yet bid the mourner cease to weep!
To gloom of sadness thou canst suit
The chords of thy delicious lute;
For every heart thou hast a tone,
Can make its pulses all thine own!


THE LAST TEAR. SHE had done weeping, but her eyelash yet Lay silken heavy on her lilied cheek, And on its fringe a tear, like a lone star Shining upon the rich and hyacinth skirts O’ the western cloud that veils the April even. The veil rose up, and with rose the star, Glittering above the gleam of tender blue, That widen'd as the shower clears off from heaven. Her beauty woke,-a sudden beam of soul Flash'd from her eye, and lit the vestal's cheek Into one crimson, and exhaled the tear.



WHITE bud! that in meek beauty so dost lean,

The cloister'd cheek as pale as moonlight snow, Thou seem'st beneath thy huge, high leaf of green,

An Eremite beneath his mountain's brow.

White bud! thou’rt emblem of a lovelier thing,

The broken spirit that its anguish bears
To silent shades, and there sits offering
To Heaven, the holy fragrance of its tears.



DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange groves and myrtle bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win

the race at eve.

The shepherd's hom at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
These simple joys,

that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.


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