I love a maid, a mystic maid,
Whose form no eyes but mine can see;
She comes in light, she comes in shade,
And beautiful in both is she.
Her shape in dreams I oft behold,
And oft she whispers in my ear
Such words as when to others told,
Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;
Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow,
Come o'er me in my darkest ways;
And feel as if her voice, even now,
Were echoing far off my lays.
There is no scene of joy or woe
But she doth gild with influence bright;

Unbind thee, love, unbind thee, love,
From those dark ties unbind thee;
Tho' fairest hand the chain hath wove,
Too long its links have twined thee.
Away from earth!--thy wings were made
In yon mid-sky to hover,
With earth beneath their dove-like shade,
And heaven all radiant over.

Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy,
Too long thy soul is sleeping;
And thou mayst from this minute's joy
Wake to eternal weeping.
Oh, think, this world is not for thee;
Tho' hard its links to sever;
Tho' sweet and bright and dear they be,

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!

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 passion 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,

There are two Loves, the poet sings,
Both born of Beauty at a birth:
The one, akin to heaven, hath wings,
The other, earthly, walks on earth.
With this thro' bowers below we play,
With that thro' clouds above we soar;
With both, perchance, may lose our way:--
Then, tell me which,
Tell me which shall we adore?

The one, when tempted down from air,
At Pleasure's fount to lave his lip,
Nor lingers long, nor oft will dare
His wing within the wave to dip.
While plunging deep and long beneath,
The other bathes him o'er and o'er

The world was husht, the moon above
Sailed thro' ether slowly,
When near the casement of my love,
Thus I whispered lowly,--
"Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep?
"The field I seek to-morrow
"Is one where man hath fame to reap,
"And woman gleans but sorrow."

"Let battle's field be what it may.
Thus spoke a voice replying,
"Think not thy love, while thou'rt away,
"Will sit here idly sighing.
"No--woman's soul, if not for fame,
"For love can brave all danger!
Then forth from out the casement came
A plumed and armed stranger.

Wake up, sweet melody!
Now is the hour
When young and loving hearts
Feel most thy power,
One note of music, by moonlight's soft ray--
Oh, 'tis worth thousands heard coldly by day.
Then wake up, sweet melody!
Now is the hour
When young and loving hearts
Feel most thy power.

Ask the fond nightingale,
When his sweet flower
Loves most to hear his song,
In her green bower?
Oh, he will tell thee, thro' summer-nights long,
Fondest she lends her whole soul to his song.
Then wake up, sweet melody!

Sing to Love--for, oh, 'twas he
Who won the glorious day;
Strew the wreaths of victory
Along the conqueror's way.
Yoke the Muses to his car,
Let them sing each trophy won;
While his mother's joyous star
Shall light the triumph on.

Hail to Love, to mighty Love,
Let spirits sing around;
While the hill, the dale, and grove,
With "mighty Love" resound;
Or, should a sigh of sorrow steal
Amid the sounds thus echoed o'er,
'Twill but teach the god to feel
His victories the more.

See his wings, like amethyst

Wake thee, my dear--thy dreaming
Till darker hours will keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Moments there are we number,
Moments of pain and care,
Which to oblivious slumber
Gladly the wretch would spare.

But now,--who'd think of dreaming
When Love his watch should keep?
While such a moon is beaming,
'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

If e'er the fates should sever
My life and hopes from thee, love,
The sleep that lasts for ever
Would then be sweet to me, love;

There's a song of the olden time,
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear.
And even amidst the grand and gay,
When Music tries her gentlest art
I never hear so sweet a lay,
Or one that hangs so round my heart,
As that song of the olden time,
Falling sad o'er the ear,
Like the dream of some village chime,
Which in youth we loved to hear,

And when all of this life is gone,--
Even the hope, lingering now,
Like the last of the leaves left on
Autumn's sere and faded bough,--