The pleasing serenade,

On each auspicious eve,

Decoys the beauteous maid

In sprightly mood to leave

Her home, and to thy favourite haunt with pride to cleave.

Amphion with his lyre

But animated stones;

Ascending yet much higher,

Thy unexampled tones

Control the heart whose will no other magic owns.

The Deities of Night,

Enamoured of thy song,

Give speedy birth to Light,

And Day would woo thee long

To join her chorus with thy strains profuse and strong.

Poets in vain have sought

Thy genius to explore

In tuneful numbers, fraught

With richly classic lore,

And patient musings drawn from Nature's lavish store.

As from the deep recess

Wells up the gushing stream,

Thou, by intense excess

Of ravishment, wouldst seem

Anon to overflow with thy melodious theme.

But whence, again, the Spring

That feeds thy vocal fount,

Till woods rejoicing ring

With its diffuse amount :

Can human skill, or inspiration, best account?

M

Imagination paints

In evanescent tint;

And struggling reason faints

To stereotype the print:

None but its Author gives more than a feeble hint.

SIGH NOT FOR THE MAIDEN.

SIGH not for the maiden with golden hair,

Though sweet as the bridal morn;

Her tresses will furnish a perilous snare,

And when she discovers your heart to be there, She will treat you, alas! with scorn.

Her soul may be calm as the Western sky,
When kissed by the sun's last ray;

But the latent spark of her soft blue eye

Will soon with the imminent lightning vie,

If she gain not an absolute sway.

Her song may be sweet as the golden harps,

When tuned by the heavenly choir;

But he who in jest at her music carps, Provokes her to substitute flats for sharps, And writhes in her pitiless ire.

There is yet such a spell in this golden hair, And the features it serves to adorn,

That nothing on earth can be found so fair As the maiden who sings in her golden hair, "There's a charm in the early morn."