A LOVE SONG.

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'r 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,

All Love's pleasures-all its woes!

WHEN the wind blows

In the sweet rose-tree,

And the cow lows

On the fragrant lea,

And the stream flows

All bright and free,

'Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me,

Tis not for any one here, I trow:
The gentle wind bloweth,
The happy cow loweth,
The merry stream floweth,
For all below!

O the Spring! the bountiful Spring!
She shineth and smileth on everything.

Where come the sheep?

To the rich man's moor.

Where cometh sleep?

To the bed that's poor.

Peasants must weep,

And kings endure;

THE BLOOD HORSE.

GAMARRA is a dainty steed,
Strong, black, and of a noble breed,
Full of fire, and full of bone,
With all his line of fathers known;
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,
But blown abroad by the pride within!
His mane is like a river flowing,
And his eyes like embers glowing
In the darkness of the night,
And his pace as swift as light.

Look! how 'round his straining throat
Grace and shifting beauty float!
Sinewy strength is on his reins,

And the red blood gallops through his veins-
Richer, redder, never ran

Through the boasting heart of man.
He can trace his lineage highe:
Than the Bourbon dare aspire-
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O'Brien's blood itself!

He, who hath no peer, was born
Here, upon a red March morn:
But his famous fathers dead
Were Arabs all, and Arab bred,
And the last of that great line
Trod like one of a race divine!
And yet he was but friend to one,
Who fed him at the set of sun,
By some lone fountain fringed with green:
With him, a roving Bedouin,

He lived (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day)—
And died untamed upon the sands
Where Balkh amid the desert stands !

THE STRANGER.

A STRANGER came to a rich man's door,
And smiled on his mighty feast;
And away his brightest child he bore,
And laid her toward the East.

He came next spring, with a smile as gay,
(At the time the East wind blows),
And another bright creature he led away,
With a cheek like a burning rose.

And he came once more, when the spring was bits,
And whispered the last to rest,

And bore her away-yet nobody knew

The name of the fearful guest!

Next year, there was none but the rich man left-
Left alone in his pride and pain,
Who called on the Stranger, like one bereft,

And sought through the land-in vain!
He came not; he never was heard nor seen
Again (so the story saith);

But, wherever his terrible smile had been,
Men shuddered, and talked of-Death!

THE HEART-BROKEN. GENTLE Mother, do not weave Garlands for my forehead pale! Unto hearts that e'er must grieve, What do crowns avail ? Tell me not of bridal flowers:

What are they when life is past? Tell me not of happy hours, When they flee so fast! Bind thy cypress round my heart! Hide me in the mortal pal! Show them, when all hopes depart, What sad things befall!

I am dead, a statue, left

Pointing perils out unknown, Shorn of life, and love-bereft, All my youth o'erthrown! All o'erthrown!

SONG OF THE OUTCAST.

I was born on a winter's morn,
Welcomed to life with hate and scorn,
Torn from a famished mother's side,

Who left me here, with a laugh, and-died;
Left me here with the curse of life,
To be tossed about in the burning strife,
Linked to nothing but shame and pain,
Echoing nothing but man's disdain;
O, that I might again be born,

With treble my strength of hate and scorn!

I was born by a sudden shock

Born by the blow of a ruffian sire,
Given to air, as the blasted rock

Gives out the reddening roaring fire.
My sire was stone; but my dark blood
Ran its round like a fiery flood,
Rushing through every tingling vein,
And flaming ever at man's disdain;
Ready to give back, night or morn,
Hate for hate, and scorn for scorn!
They cast me out, in my hungry need,
(A dog, whom none would own, nor feed,)
Without a home, without a meal,

And bade me go forth-to slay and steal!
What wonder, God! had my hands been red,
With the blood of a host in secret shed!
But no! I fought on the free sea-wave,
And perilled my life for my plunder brave,
And never yet shrank, in nerve or breath,
But struck, as the pirate strikes to death!

A PHANTASY.

FEED her with the leaves of Love,

(Love, the rose, that blossoms here!) Music, gently 'round her move!

Bind her to the cypress near!
Weave her round and round,
With skeins of silken sound!

'Tis a little stricken deer,
Who doth from the hunter fly,
And comes here to droop-to die,
Ignorant of her wound!

Sooth her with sad stories,

O poet, till she sleep!

Dreams, come forth with all your glories!
Night, breathe soft and deep!
Music, round her creep!

If she steal away to weep,
Seek her out-and, when you find her,
Gentle, gentlest Music, wind her

Round and round, Round and round,

With your bands of softest sound; Such as we, at night-fall, hear

In the wizard forest near,

When the charmed Maiden sings
At the hidden springs!

AN IRISH SONG.

AIR-KATHLEEN O'MORE.

He is gone to the wars, and has left me alone, The poor Irish soldier, unfriended, unknown, My husband, my Patrick,

The bird of my bosom-though now he is flown!
How I mourned for the boy! yet I murmured the more,
'Cause we once were so happy in darlin' Lismore,
Poor Ellen and Patrick!

Perhaps he now thinks of poor Ellen no more!

A cabin we had, and the cow was hard by,
And a slip of a garden that gladden'd the eye:
And there was our Patrick-

Ne'er idle while light ever lived in the sky.

We married-too young, and it's likely too poor,
Yet no two were so happy in happy Lismore,
As Ellen and Patrick;

Till they tempted and took him away from our door.
He said he would bring me, ere Autumn should fall,
A linnet or lark that should come at my call:

Alas! the poor Patrick!

He has left me a bird that is sweeter than all. 'Twas born in a hovel, 'twas nourished in pain, But it came in my grief, like a light on the brain, (The child of poor Patrick),

And taught me to hope for bright fortune again. And now we two wander from door unto loor, And, sometimes we steal back to happy Lismore, And ask for poor Patrick;

And dream of the days when all wars will be o'er.

HOME.-(A DUET.)

He. Dost thou love wandering? Whither wouldst thou go?
Dreamst thou, sweet daughter, of a land more fair?
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!
To what pale banished region wouldst thou roam?
She. O father, let us find our frozen rocks!

Let's seek that country of all countries-Home!
He. Seest thou these orange flowers? this palm that rears
Its head up toward heaven's blue and cloudless dome ?
She. I dream, I dream; mine eyes are hid in tears;

My heart is wandering round our ancient home. He. Why, then, we'll go. Farewell, ye tender skies, Who sheltered us, when we were forced to roam! She. On, on! Let's pass the swallow as he flies! Farewell. kind land! Now, father, now-for Home'

THE VINTAGE SONG.

O THE merry vintage-time!

The merry, matchless vintage-time! What can vie

Beneath the sky

With the merry merry vintage-time?
What, though summer birds have fled,
Singing to some other clime;

We have tongues that music shed

Still, and a song for vintage-time!

Come!-O'er the hills the moon is glancing!
Now's the time for dancing, dancing!
Now's the time, Now's the time,
The merry merry vintage-time!

Now's the happy vintage-time,

The happy honor'd vintage-time!
E'en great Earth

Doth mix in mirth

With us, her sons, at vintage-time.
Not a storm doth vex her brow,

Flooding rain, nor frosty rime;

But the sunny Autumn now

Laugheth out-""Tis vintage-time."-Come &c.

Praise, then, all the vintage-time,
Children of the vintage-time!
Girls and boys

Who know the joys

Of the merry fruitful vintage-time!

Leave to Spring the love-sweet flowers;

Winter still its song and rhyme;

Summer all her balmy hours;

Still we've our dance at vintage-time !-Come &c.

THE RETURN OF THE ADMIRAL.

How gallantly, how merrily,

We ride along the sea!

The morning is all sunshine,

The wind is blowing free:
The billows are all sparkling,

And bounding in the light,
Like creatures in whose sunny veins
The blood is running bright.
All nature knows our triumph:

Strange birds about us sweep;
Strange things come up to look at us

The masters of the deep.
In our wake, like any servant,

Follows even the bold shark-
Oh, proud must be our Admiral
Of such a bonny barque !
Proud, proud, must be our Admiral,
(Though he is pale to-day,)
Of twice five hundred iron men,
Who all his nod obey;

Who've fought for him, and conquered-
Who've won, with sweat and gore,
Nobility which he shall have
Whene'er he touch the shore.
Oh! would I were our Admiral,
To order, with a word—

To lose a dozen drops of blood,
And straight rise up a lord!
I'd shout e'en to yon shark, there,
Who follows in our lee,

"Some day I'll make thee carry me,
Like lightning through the sea."
-The Admiral grew paier,
And paler as we flew :
Still talked he to his officers,

And smiled upon his crew;
And he looked up at the heavens,
And he looked down on the sea,
And at last he spied the creature,
That kept following in our lee.
He shook-'twas but an instant-
For speedily the pride
Ran crimson to his heart,

Till all chances he defied:

It threw boldness on his forehead;
Gave firmness to his breath;
And he stood like some grim warrior
New risen up from death.

That night, a horrid whisper
Fell on us where we lay;
And we knew our old fine Admiral
Was changing into clay;
And we heard the wash of waters,
Though nothing could we see,
And a whistle and a plunge

Among the billows in our lee!
Till dawn we watched the body
In its dead and ghastly sleep,
And next evening at sunset,

It was slung into the deep! And never, from that momentSave one shudder through the sea, Saw we (or heard) the shark That had followed in our lee!

LOVE AND MIRTH.

WHAT Song doth the cricket sing?
What news doth the swallow bring?
What doth laughing boyhood tell?
What calls out the marriage bell?

What say all ?-Love and Mirth!
In the air, and in the earth:
Very, very soft and merry

Is the natural song of Earth.

Mark the Morn, when first she springe
Upward on her golden wings;
Hark, to the soaring, soaring lark!
And the echoing forests-hark!

What say they?—Love and Mirta, fc.

With the leaves the apples wrestle;
In the grass the daisies nestle;
And the sun smiles on the wall:
Tell us, what's the cause of all?

Mirth and Love-Love and Mirth, da

Is it Mirth? Then why will man
Spoil the sweet song all he can ?
Bid him, rather, aye rejoice,
With a kind and a merry voice!

Bid him sing "Love and Mirth!"
To the air, and to the earth, &c.

SONG OVER A CHILD.

DREAM, Baby, dream!

The stars are glowing.
Hear'st thou the stream?

'Tis softly flowing.
All gently glide the Hours:
Above, no tempest lowers:
Below, are fragrant flowers
In silence growing.
Sleep, Baby, sleep,

"Till dawn to-morrow! Why shouldst thou weep,

Who know'st not sorrow?

Too soon comes pains and fe. }
Too soon a cause for tears:
So, from thy future years

No sadness borrow!

Dream, Baby, dream!
Thine eyelids quiver.
Know'st thou the theme
Of yon soft river?

It saith, "Ee calm, be sure,
Unfailing, gentle, pure:
So shall thy life endure,
Like mine, for ever!"

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE BRIDAL.

Now, what shady wreath wilt wear,
Maiden-Maiden ?

Bid them bind the veil with care,
'Round the sunshine of thy hair!
Let thy brow be free from scorn;

Let thine eye have gentle light
On the gentle marriage morn;
And so-Good Night!

It is now the youth of May,
Maiden-Maiden !

Choose thou, then, at blush of day,
Buds and blossoms, not too gay;
And, behind their veiling sweets,

Bashful be, 'midst all their light,
When the tender lover greets :
And so-Good Night!
Soon To-morrow will be here,
Maiden-Maiden !

Then-as hopes aye mix with fears,
Mix thou smiles with pearled tears;
So shall he who loves thee feel

Thrice his first sweet pure delight,
And nearer to thy bosom steal;
And so Good Night!

A DEEP AND A MIGHTY SHADOW

A DEEP and a mighty shadow

Across my heart is thrown,

Like a cloud on a summer meadow,

Where the Thunder-wind hath blown

The wild-rose, Fancy, dieth,

The sweet bird, Memory, flieth,

And leaveth me alone

Alone with my hopeless Sorrow:
No other mate I know!

I strive to awake To-morrow;

But the dull words will not flow! I pra7-but my prayers are driven Aside, by the angry Heaven,

And weigh me down with wo!

I call on the Past, to lend me
Its songs, to sooth my pain: .
I bid the dim Future send me

A light from its eyes-in vain!
Naught comes; but a skrill cry starteth
From Hope, as she fast departeth :-
"I go, and come not again!"

And rivulets sing

Like birds in spring?

For me-I will take my stand

On Land, on Land!

For ever and ever on solid Land!

!ve sailed on the riotous roaring sea,
With an undaunted band:

et my village home more pleaseth me,
With its valley gay
Where maidens stray,

And its grassy mead

Where the white flocks feed:

And so I will take my stand
On Land, on Land!

For ever and ever on solid Land!

Some swear they could die on the salt salt sea
(But have they been loved on Land?)
Some rave of the Ocean in drunken glee-
Of the music born
On a gusty morn,

When the tempest is waking,
And billows are breaking,
And lightning flashing,
And the thick rain dashing,

And the winds and the thunders
Shout forth the sea-wonders!
-Such things may give joy
To a dreaming boy:

But for me I will take my stand
On Land, on Land!

For ever and ever on solid Land!

PERDITA.

THE nest of the dove is rifled;

Alas! alas!

The dream of delight is stifled;
And all that was

Of beauty and hope is broken;
But words will flee,
Though truest were ever spoken:
Alas, for me!

His love was as fragrant ever,
As flowers to bees;

His voice like the mournful river;
But streams will freeze!
Ah! where can I fly, deceived?
Ah! where, where rest?

I am sick, like the dove bereaved,
And have no nest!

THE WEAVER'S SONG.

WEAVE, brothers, weave!-Swiftly throw
The shuttle athwart the loom,

And show us how brightly your flowers grow,
That have beauty but no perfume!

Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes,
The lily, that hath no spot;

The violet, deep as your true love's eyes,
And the little forget-me-not.

Sing-sing, brothers! weave and sing!
'Tis good both to sing and to weavej
'Tis better to work than live idle;
'Tis better to sing than grieve.

Weave, brothers, weave!-Weave, and bid
The colors of sunset glow!

Let grace in each gliding thread be hid!

Let beauty about ye blow!

Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine,
And your hands both firm and sure,

And time nor chance shall your work untwine;
But all-like a truth-endure.

So-sing, brothers, &c.

Weave, brothers, weave!-Toil is ours;
But toil is the lot of men;

One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,
One soweth the seed again!

There is not a creature, from England's king,

To the peasant that delves the soil, That knows half the pleasures the seasons bring If he have not his share of toil! So-sing brothers, &c.

SLEEP ON.

SLEEP on! The world is vain :
All grief, and sin, and pain;

If there be a dream of joy,

It comes in slumber, pretty boy!
So, sweet Sleep!

Hang upon his eyelids deep;
Show him all that can not be,
Ere thou dost flee!

Sleep on! Let no bad truth
Fall yet upon his youth;
Let him see no thing unkind,
But live a little longer blind!
O sweet Sleep!

Hang upon his eyelids deep;
Show him Love, without his wings,
And all fair things!

LOVE THE POET, PRETTY ONE!

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 show 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,

Caught from air and heaven above:
Some will teach thee how to grieve;

Others, how-to love!

How from sweet to sweet to rove

How all evil things to shun: Should I not then whisper, "LoveLove the poet, pretty one"?

LUCY.

LUCY is a golden girl;

But a man-a man should woo her! They who seek her shrink aback,

When they should, like storms, pursue her.

All her smiles are hid in light;

All her hair is lost in splendor; But she hath the eyes of Night,

And a heart that's over-tender. Yet, the foolish suiters fly

(Is't excess of dread or duty ?) From the starlight of her eye, Leaving to neglect her beauty!

Men by fifty seasons taught,

Leave her to a young beginner, Who, without a second thought,

Whispers, woos, and straight must win her.

Lucy is a golden girl!

Toast her in a goblet brimming!

May the man that wins her wear

On his heart the Rose of Women!

THE WOOING SONG.

O PLEASANT is the fisher's life,
By the waters streaming;
And pleasant is the poet's life,
Ever, ever dreaming;

And pleasant is the hunter's life,
O'er the meadows riding;

And pleasant is the sailor's life,

On the seas abiding!

But, oh! the merry life is wooing, is wooing ;
Never overtaking, and always pursuing!

The hunter, when the chase is done,
Laugheth loud and drinketh;

The poet, at the set of sun,

Sigheth deep, and thinketh;

The sailor, though from sea withdrawn,

Dreams he's half seas over,

The fisher dreameth of the dawn,

But, what dreams the lover?

He dreams that the merry life is wooing, is wooing; Never overtaking, and always pursuing !

Some think that life is very long,

And murmur at the measure;

Some think it is a syren song

A short, false, fleeting pleasure; Some sigh it out in gloomy shades,

Thinking naught, nor doing;

But we'll ne'er think it gloomy, Maids!
While there's time for wooing.

For, sure, the merry life is wooing, is wooing;

HERMIONE.

THOU hast beauty bright and fair,
Manner noble, aspect free,
Eyes that are untouched by care :
What then do we ask from thee?
Hermione, Hermione ?

Thou hast reason quick and strong,
Wit that envious men admire,

And a voice, itself a song!

What then can we still desire ?
Hermione, Hermione ?

Something thou dost wan., O queen!
(As the gold doth ask alloy),
Tears, amid thy laughter seen,
Pity, mingling with thy joy.

This is all we ask from thes
Hermione, Hermione!

THE OWL.

IN the hollow tree, in the old gray tower,
The spectral Owl doth dwell;
Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour,
But at dusk-he's abroad and well!
Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him;
All mock him outright, by day:

But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away!

O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl, Then, then is the reign of the Horned Owl! And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, And loveth the wood's deep gloom;

And, with eyes like the shine of the moonstone coll,
She awaiteth her ghastly groom!

Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
As she waits in her tree so still;
But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,
She hoots out her welcome shrill!

O, when the moon shines, and dogs do howl! Then, then is the joy of the Horned Owl! Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight! The Owl hath his share of good:

If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is Lord in the dark green-wood!
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate,
They are each unto each a pride:

Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate
Hath rent them from ail beside!

So, when the night falls and dogs do howl,
Sing, Ho! for the reign of the Hornea Owl!
We know not alway

Who are kings by day,

But the King of the night is the bold brown Ow!!

THE HUMBER FERRY. BOATMAN, hither! Furl your sail! Row us o'er the Humber ferry! Furl it close! The blustering gale Seems as he would fain be merry. Pleasant is he, when in fun

He blows about the bud or berry; But his mirth we fain would shun Out upon the Humber ferry! Now, bold fisher, shall we go

With thee o'er the Humber river? Hear'st thou how the blast doth blow? See'st thou how thy sail doth shiver? Wilt thou dare (dismayed by naught)

Wind and wave, thou bold sea-liver? And shall we, whom Love hath taught, Tremble at the rolling river?

Row us forth! Unfurl thy sail!
What care we for tempests blowing?
Let us kiss the blustering gale!
Let us breast the waters flowing!
Though the North rush cold and loud,

Love shall warm and make us merry; Though the waves all weave a shroud, We will dare the Hun ber ferry !