The Pleiads now no more are seen,
Nor shines the silver Moon serene,
In dark and dismal Clouds o'ercast;
The love appointed Hour is past:
Midnight usurps her sable Throne,
And yet, alas! I lie alone.

The Moon has veil'd her Silver Light,
The Pleiades have left the Sky;
It's now the silent Noon of Night,
The Love-sworn Hour is past; yet I
Alone, deserted, pining lie!

I S it Nature? — Is it Art,
That can wind thee round my heart?
Where are now ( thy conquering arms)
Beauty's flame, and vernal charms?
Dimpled smiles, and blooming cheek,
That in love, though mute, could speak?
They are vanish'd — they are fled —
Still in fetters I am led;
Memory no more can tell,
Why in youth we lov'd so well;
Or describe the magic power,
That enchanted every hour?
All her shadows, in the air,
Of the parting ray despair.
It is habit that endears ,

MAN , man loves his steed,
For its blood or its breed,
For its odour the rose, for its honey the bee;
His own haughty beauty
From pride or from duty;
But I love my love, because — he loves me .

Oh, my love has an eye,
Like a star in the sky,
And breath like the sweets from the hawthorn tree;
And his heart is a treasure,
Whose worth is past measure;
And yet he hath given all — all to me!

It crowns me with light,
In the dead of the night,

I.

Y E earthly vanities depart,
For ever hence remove;
Jesus alone deserves my heart,
And every thought of love.

II.

His heart, where love and pity dwelt
In all their softest forms,
Sustain'd the heavy load of guilt,
For lost rebellious worms;

III.

His heart, whence love abundant flow'd
To wash the stains of sin,
In precious streams of vital blood —

Love the poet, pretty one!
He unfoldeth knowledge fair;
Lessons of the earth and sun,
And of azure air.

He can teach thee how to reap
Music from the golden lyre:
He can shew thee how to steep
All thy thoughts in fire.

Heed not, though at times he seem
Dark and still, and cold as clay:
He is shadowed by his Dream!
But 'twill pass away.

Then — bright fancies will he weave,

Dost thou love wandering? Whither would'st thou go?
Dream'st thou, sweet daughter, of a land more
Dost thou not love these aye-blue streams that flow?
These spicy forests? and this golden air? She .

O, yes, I love the woods, and streams, so gay:
And, more than all, O father, I love thee;
Yet would I fain be wandering — far away,
Where such things never were, nor e'er shall be. He .

Speak, mine own daughter with the sunbright locks!

T HE Judge, his ermine laid aside,
For happiness exchanging pride,
Of life's gay term renews the lease,
And plays at cribbage with his Niece .

'Tis true the Niece we here disclose
Is lovely as a new-born rose;
And Love could find a golden fleece,
If he should light on such a Niece .

The vestals of severe decorum,
A dish of scandal plac'd before 'em,
Have tongues that cannot rest in peace
Till they have stripp'd the Judge's Niece .

Whatever he can do or say,
The gossip tongues will have their way;

" The Lyre to Heroes had been strung,
But Love alone the tune it sung;
Again 'twas Love; no other sound,
The Poet or the Minstrel found. "
Thus in her frolic Winter's day,
Anacreon's cheerful Muse could play;
But mine, which Agonies inspire,
Tunes with no other string the lyre;
Could Love himself the chords demand,
They would reject his impious hand;
Call'd in his name , but proudly mute,
The baffled insult would refute.
Yet have they known the Tyrant's voice,

Give me but thy heart, though cold;
I ask no more!
Give to others gems and gold;
But leave me poor.
Give to whom thou wilt thy smiles;
Cast o'er others all thy wiles;
But let thy tears flow fast and free,
For me , — with me!

Giv'st thou but one look, sweet heart?
A word, — no more?
It is Music's sweetest part.
When lips run o'er!
'Tis a part I fain would learn,
So, pr'ythee, here thy lessons turn,
And teach me, to the close,