WHEN FIRST I DARED.

WHEN first I dared, by soft surprise,
To breathe my love in Flavia's ear
I saw the mixed sensations rise

Of trembling joy and pleasing fear;
Her cheek forgot its rosy hue,
For what has art with love to do?

But soon the crimson glow returned,

Ere half my passion was expressed The eye that closed, the cheek that burned, The quivering lip, the panting breast, Showed that she wished or thought me true; For what has art with love to do?

Ah! speak, I cried, thy soft assent:

She strove to speak, she could but sigh; A glance, more heavenly eloquent,

Left language nothing to supply.
She pressed my hand with fervor new;
For what has art with love to do?

Ye practised nymphs, who from your charms,
By Fashion's rules, enjoy your skill;
Torment your swains with false alarins,
And, ere you cure, pretend to kill :
Still, still your sex's wiles pursue,
Such tricks she leaves to art and you.

Secure of native powers to please,

My Flavia scorns all mean pretence; Her form is elegance and ease,

Her soul is truth and innocence;

And these, O heartfelt ecstasy!

She gives to honor, love, and me.

WILLIAM MASCN.

HOLYDAY GOWN.

Is holyday gown, and my new-fangled hat,
Last Monday I tripped to the fair;

I held up my head, and I'll tell you for what,-
Brisk Roger I guessed would be there:

He woos me to marry whenever we meet,

There's honey sure dwells on his tongue! He hugs me so close, and he kisses so sweetI'd wed-if I were not too young.

Fond Sue, I'll assure you, laid hold on the boy,
(The vixen would fain be his bride,)

Some token she claimed, either riband or toy,
And swore that she 'd not be denied:

A top-knot he bought her, and garters of green,-
Pert Susan was cruelly stung;

I hate her so much that, to kill her with spleen,
I'd wed-if I were not too young.

He whispered such soft pretty things in mine ear!
He flattered, he promised, and swore!

Such trinkets he gave me, such laces and geer,
That, trust me, my pockets ran o'er :
Some ballads he bought me, the best he could find,
And sweetly their burden he sung;

Good faith! he's so handsome, so witty, and kind,
I'd wed-if I were not too young.

The sun was just setting, 'twas time to retire,
(Our cottage was distant a mile);

I rose to be gone-Roger bowed like a squire,
And handed me over the stile:

His arms he threw round me-love laughed in his eye;
He led me the meadows among,

There pressed me so close, I agreed, with a sigh,
To wed-for I was not too young.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM

ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. O, STAY, Sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray; A hapless lover courts thy lay,

Thy soothing fond complaining.

ON A FADED VIOLET.

THE odor from the flower is gone,
Which, like thy kisses, breathed on me;
The color from the flower is flown,
Which glowed of thee, and only thee!

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart, which yet is warm,
With cold and silent rest.

I weep-my tears revive it not!
I sigh-it breathes no more on me;
Its mute and uncomplaining lot
Is such as mine should be.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.

SEE the mountains ss high heaven,
And the waves class one another;
No sister flower would be forgiven,
If it disdained its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea,
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

MOURN NOT, SWEET MAID. MOURN not, sweet maid, nor fondly try To rob me of my sorrow;

It is the only friend that I
Have left in my captivity,

To bid my heart good-morrow.

I would not chase him from my heart, For he is Love's own brother;

And each has learned his brother's part So aptly, that 'tis no mean art

To know one from the other.

Thus Love will fold his arms and moan,
And sigh, and weep, like Sorrow;
And Sorrow has caught Love's soft tone,
And mixed his arrows with his own,

And learned his smile to borrow.

Go, forget me-why should sorrow
O'er that brow a shadow fling?
Go, forget me-and to-morrow

Brightly smile and sweetly sing.
Smile-though I shall not be near thee:
Sing-though I shall never hear thee:
May thy soul with pleasure shine,
Lasting as the gloom of mine.

Like the sun, thy presence glowing,

Clothes the meanest things in light; And when thou, like him, art going, Loveliest objects fade in night. All things looked so bright about thee, That they nothing seem without thee; By that pure and lucid mind Earthly things were too refined. Go, thou vision, wildly gleaming, Softly on my soul that fell; Go, for me no longer beaming

Hope and Beauty! fare ye well! Go, and all that once delighted Take, and leave me all benightedGlory's burning generous swell, Fancy, and the Poet's shell.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.
I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Has led me who knows how?
To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream-
The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must on thine,
Beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast,
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.
PERCY BYSSHE S

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee:

And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming.
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,

As an infant's asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of summer's ocean.
LOR J

THE FAREWELL.
LADY! whose soft and dove-like eye,
Beaming with Love's own witchery,
Hath from our Album's pages caught
Feelings responsive to thy thought;
Sweet lady! twine no sacred ties
With Pleasure's heartless votaries!
Hide thy soul's richness! like that flower
Whose sweet aroma to no power
But the pure sunshine is revealed-

Long, long, midst leaves and moss concealed;
But, when secure of well-tried worth,
Then pour its hidden treasure forth:
And blend thy trusting tenderness
With man's strong, deep devotedness;
Nor turn thee with "a scornful eye,"
From faith a kingdom could not buy!

And thou, fond Lover! to whose truth
Woman intrusts her hopes, her youth,
Her very life-oh! guard and cherish
Feelings which once neglected-perish!
Keep her fair form, and spotless mind,
Within thy heart of hearts enshrined:
Be thou the oak, round which may twine
The graceful foliage of the vine:
And ask, to bless thee, from above
The precious boon of woman's love!

'Twas here, in this secluded spot,

Amid whose breathings calm and sweet Grief might be sooth'd, if not forgot,

The Zean nymphs resolv'd to meet Each evening now, by the same light That saw their farewell tears that night; And try, if sound of lute and song,

If wand'ring 'mid the moonlight flowers In various talk, could charm along

With lighter step, the ling'ring hours,
Till tidings of that Bark should come,
Or Victory waft their warriors home!

When first they met-the wonted smile
Of greeting having gleam'd awhile-
"Twould touch ev'n Moslem heart to see
The sadness that came suddenly

O'er their young brows, when they look'd round
Upon that bright, enchanted ground;
And thought, how many a time, with those
Who now were gone to the rude wars,
They there had met, at evening's close,
And danc'd till morn outshone the stars!

But seldom long doth hang th' eclipse

Of sorrow o'er such youthful breasts-
The breath from her own blushing lips,
That on the maiden's mirror rests,
Not swifter, lighter from the glass,
Than sadness from her brow doth pass.
Soon did they now, as round the Well

They sat, beneath the rising moon-
And some, with voice of awe, would tell
Of midnight fays, and nymphs who dwell
In holy founts-while some would tune
Their idle lutes, that now had lain,
For days, without a single strain;—
And others, from the rest apart,

With laugh, that told the lighten❜d heart,
Sat, whisp'ring in each other's ear
Secrets, that all in turn would hear;-
Soon did they find this thoughtless play
So swiftly steal their griefs away,

That many a nymph, though pleas'd the while,
Reproach'd her own forgetful smile,
And sigh'd to think she could be gay

Among these maidens there was one,

Who to Leucadia late had been-
Had stood, beneath the evening sun,

On its white tow'ring cliffs, and seen
The very spot where Sappho sung
Her swan-like music, ere she sprung
(Still holding, in that fearful leap,
By her lov'd lyre,) into the deep,
And dying quench'd the fatal fire,
At once, of both her heart and lyre.
Mutely they listen'd all-and well
Did the young travell'd maiden tell
Of the dread height to which that steep
Beetles above the eddying deep-t
Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling round
The dizzy edge with mournful sound-
And of those scented liliest found
Still blooming on that fearful place-
As if call'd up by Love, to grace

Th' immortal spot, o'er which the last
Bright footsteps of his martyr pass'd!

While fresh to ev'ry listener's thought
These legends of Leucadia brought
All that of Sappho's hapless flame
Is kept alive, still watch'd by Fame-
The maiden, tuning her soft lute,
While all the rest stood round her, mute,
Thus sketch'd the languishment of soul,

That o'er the tender Lesbian stole,
And, in a voice, whose thrilling tone
Fancy might deem the Lesbian's own,
One of those fervid fragments gave,
Which still,-like sparkles of Greek Fire,
Undying, ev'n beneath the wave,—
Burn on through Time, and ne'er expire

SONG.

As o'er her loom the Lesbian Maid In love-sick languor hung her head, Unknowing where her finger's stray'd, She weeping turn'd away, and said, "Oh, my sweet Mother-'tis in vain"I cannot weave, as once I wove"So wilder'd is my heart and brain "With thinking of that youth I love!"

Again the web she tried to trace,

But tears fell o'er each tangled thread; While, looking in her mother's face,

Who watchful o'er her lean'd, she said, "Oh, my sweet Mother-'tis in vain

"I cannot weave, as once I wove"So wilder'd is my heart and brain "With thinking of that youth I love!"

A silence follow'd this sweet air,
As each in tender musing stood,
Thinking, with lips that mov'd in pray'r,
Of Sappho and that fearful flood:
While some, who ne'er till now had known
How much their hearts resembled hers,
Felt as they made her griefs their own,

That they, too, were Love's worshippe

At length a murmur, all but mute,
So faint it was, came from the lute
Of a young melancholy maid,
Whose fingers, all uncertain play'd
From cherd to chord, as if in chase

Of some lost melody, some strain
Of other times, whose faded trace

She sought among those chords again. Slowly the half-forgotten theme

(Though born in feelings ne'er forgot) Came to her memory-as a beam

Falls broken o'er some shaded spot, And while her lute's sad symphony Fill'd up each sighing pause between; And Love himself might weep to see

What ruin comes where he hath beenAs witner'd still the grass is found Where fays have danc'd their merry round-Thus simply to the list'ning throng She breath'd her melancholy song:

Can touch it with peculiar power.

As when the air is warm, the scent Of the most wild and rustic flower

Can fill the whole rich elementAnd, in such moods, the homeliest tone That's link'd with feelings, once our ownWith friends or joys gone by-will be Worth choirs of loftiest harmony! But some there were, among the group Of damsels there, too light of heart To let their spirits longer droop,

Ev'n under music's melting art;
And one upspringing, with a bound,
From a low bank of flowers, look'd round
With eyes that, though so full of light,

Had still a trembling tear within;
And, while her fingers, in swift flight,
Flew o'er a fairy mandolin,
Thus sung the song her lover late

Had sung to her-the eve before
That joyous night, when, as of yore,
All Zea met, to celebrate

The Feast of May, on the sea-shore.

SONG.

WHEN the Balaika *

Is heard o'er the sea, I'll dance the Romaika

By moonlight with thee. If waves then, advancing,

Should steal on our play,
Thy white feet in dancing,
Shall chase them away.t
When the Balaika

Is heard o'er the sea,
Thou'lt dance the Romaika,
My own love, with me.
Then, at the closing
Of each merry lay,
How sweet 'tis, reposing,
Beneath the night ray!
Or if, desining,

The moon leave the skies,
We'll talk by the shining

Of each other's eyes.

Oh then, how featly
The dance we'll renew,

Treading so fleetly

Its light mazes through: Till stars, looking o'er us

From heaven's high bow'rs,

Would change their bright chorus For one dance of ours!

When the Balaika

Is heard o'er the sea,

Thou'lt dance the Romaika,
My own love, with me.

How changingly for ever veers

The heart of youth, 'twixt smiles and tears.
Ev'n as in April, the light vane
Now points to sunshine, now to rain.
Instant this lively lay dispell'd

The shadow from each blooming brow, And Dancing, joyous Dancing, held Full empire o'er each fancy now. But say what shall the measure be? "Shall we the old Romaika tread, (Some eager ask'd) "as anciently

This word is defrauded here, I suspect, of a syllable; Dr. Clarke, recollect right, makes it " Balalaika."

I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika upon the sand; in some of those groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating wave."-Douglas on the Modern Greeks.

"In dancing the Romaika (says Mr. Douglas) they begin in slow A solemn step till they have gained the time, but by degrees the air becomes more sprightly; the conductress of the dance sometimes set. ting to her partner, sometimes darting before the rest, and leading them rough the most rapid revolutions; sometimes crossing under the hands, which are held up to let her pass, and giving as much live

""Twas by the maids of Delos led, "When, slow at first, then circling fast, "As the gay spirits rose--at last, "With hand in hand, like links, enlock'd, "Through the light air they seem'd to flit "In labyrinthine maze, that mock'd

66

"The dazzled eye that follow'd it?" Some call'd aloud the Fountain Dance!". While one young, dark-ey'd Amazon. Whose step was air-like, and whose glance Flash'd, like a sabre in the sun, Sportively said, "Shame on these soft "And languid strains we hear so oft. "Daughters of Freedom! have not we

"Learn'd from our lovers and our sires

"The Dance of Greece, while Greece was free-"That Dance, where neither flutes nor lyres, "But sword and shield clash on the ear "A music tyrants quake to hear? § "Heroines of Zea, arm with me, "And dance the dance of Victory!"

Thus saying, she, with playful grace, Loos'd the wide hat, that o'er her face (From Anatolia || came the maid)

Hung, shadowing each sunny charm;
And, with a fair young armourer's aid,
Fixing it on her rounded arm,

A mimic shield with pride display'd;
Then, springing tow'rds a grove that spread
Its canopy of foliage near,

Pluck'd off a lance-like twig, and said,
"To arms, to arms!" while o'er her head
She wav'd the light branch, as a spear.

Promptly the laughing maidens all
Obey'd their Chief's hercic call;-
Round the shield-arm of each was tied
Hat, turban, shawl, as chance might be,
The grove, their verdant armoury,
Falchion and lance¶ alike supplied;

And as their glossy locks, let free,
Fell down their shoulders carelessly,
You might have dream'd you saw a throng
Of youthful Thyads, by the beam
Of a May moon, bounding along

Peneus' silver-eddied ** stream!

And now they stepp'd, with measur'd tread,
Martially, o'er the shining field;

Now, to the mimic combat led

(A heroine at each squadron's head,)

Struck lance to lance and sword to shield
While still, through every varying feat,
Their voices, heard in contrast sweet

With some, of deep but soften'd sound,
From lips of aged sires around,

Who smiling watch'd their children's play
Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay

SONG.

:

"RAISE the buckler-poise the lance"Now here now there-retreat-advance.

Such were the sounds, to which the warrior boy Danc'd in those happy days, when Greece was free When Sparta's youth, ev'n in the hour of joy, Thus train'd their steps to war and victory. "Raise the buckler-poise the lance"Now here now there-retreat-advance!" Such was the Spartan warriors' dance. "Grasp the falchion-gird the shield"Attack-defend-do all, but yield."

liress and intricacy as she can to the figures, into which she conducts her companions, while their business is to follow her in all her move ments, without breaking the chain, or losing the measure."

For a description of the Pyrrhic Dance, see De Guys, &c -It appears from Apuleius (lib. x.) that this war-dance was, among the ancients, sometimes performed by females.

See the costume of the Greek women of Natolia in Cistellen's Maurs des Othomans.

The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance **Homer, Il. ii. 753.