AT SIXTY YEARS OF AGE .

A T love my Helen 's an adept,
Yet calls my age a secret kept;
She tells me, with her speaking eyes,
That Love can still ensnare his prize;
Her lips, though mute, the tale repeat,
That Love 's the master of the seat;
The wrinkles fly at Helen's view,
Her folding arms the boy renew, —
With her alone my heart can prove
That mine 's at least the age for love.

Love is a halt across the desert sand —
One night of stars to drink,
Of dear earned rest
Beneath the tropic heaven of your breast.

Then on — unswerved by weariness
Of our slow moving caravan of sense,
To further parched adventuring unguessed

Open the tent! 'Tis dawn!
I hear, I understand —
God sounds the clarion.

I LOVE to see the blushing cheek
Of gay and joyous youth;
Its raptures, all too full to speak;
Its innocence and truth.

I grieve to think a blight may fall
Upon the lovely flower;
Its dewy perfumed leaves may all
Be scattered in an hour.

My heart, unbidden, heaves a sigh,
And breathes a silent prayer —
That storms may gently pass it by,
And time its glory spare.

O quench the sun,
Blur every star,
And bid the moon begone!
Love will the surer blindfold grope
To heavens of his own.

He lights the soul
With myriads
Of pagan fires to bliss —
Grant Love his hour of blazing darks,
His heavens glory-hid!

O quench the sun,
Blur every star,
And bid the moon begone!
Let Love with hot immortal lips
Find heavens of his own!

I.

Thou lovely source of true delight,
Whom I unseen adore,
Unveil thy beauties to my sight,
That I may love thee more.

II.

Thy glory o'er creation shines;
But in thy sacred word
I read, in fairer, brighter lines,
My bleeding, dying Lord.

III.

'Tis here, whene'er my comforts droop,
And sins and sorrows rise,
Thy love, with cheerful beams of hope,

Of the water fall 'tis born,
In the nodding fields of corn,
Blest type of Masons' love and plenty;
And the hymn of our delight
Shall be this symbol bright,
Singing the type of love and plenty. Chorus . —

The emblem of plenty,
The rich, GOLDEN EAR ,
Gift of a Father of grace ever dear, —
Oh, the hymn of our delight,
Shall be of this emblem bright,

TO ANNA-LOUISA, ON HER ODE TO FANCY .

Say , child of Phaebus and the eldest Grace,
Whose lyre melodious, and enchanting face,
The blendid title of thy birth proclaim;
Say, lovely Naiad of Castalia's streams,
Why thus thy Muse on Fiction's pillow dreams,
And fondly woos the rainbow-mantled Dame?
When stern Misfortune, with her Gorgon frown,
Congeals the fairy face of Bliss to stone,
Hope to the horns of Fancy's altar flies;

Some happy days we proved
While thou my heart possest,
I loving thee and loved,
Thou blessing me and blest.
When thou becam'st a foe
Disdain replaced desire,
With disdain I tell thee so,
While mingled shame and ire
From my gift neglected, flow,
As I strip the leaves now faded
From the Laurel wreaths I braided.

Star of my Love! most faithless star
That e'er on mortal misery shone!
Years pass — and still thy votaries are
Apart — self-exiled — sad — alone —
And can it be our woes are known
To Heaven, and we still doomed to feel
Pangs which though seraphs breasts were stone
Might stroke upon their hearts like steel,
Star of my Love!

Star of my Love! my years decline,
My spirits sink, my hopes decay,

Star of my Love! unmarked of late,
Again on thee my eyes I bend
Celestial messenger of Fate
What thoughts on thy bright path attend!
Evil or Good dost thou portend?
Pleasure or Pain? or Love or Hate?
Alas! how fondly do we blend
Our Earthly with thy heavenly state
What hopes what fears to thee ascend