THE EXILE.

NIGHT waneth fast, the morning star
Saddens with light the glimm'ring sea,
Whose waves shall soon to realms afar

Waft me from hope, from love, and thee.. Coldly the beam from yonder sky

Looks o'er the waves that onward stray; But colder still the stranger's eye

To him whose home is far away.

Oh, not at hour so chill and bleak,

Let thoughts of me come o'er thy breast;

But of the lost one think and speak,

When summer suns sink calm to rest.

So, as I wander, Fancy's dream

Shall bring me o'er the sunset seas,

Thy look, in every melting beam,
Thy whisper, in each dying breeze.

THE FANCY FAIR.

COME, maids and youths, for here we sell
All wond'rous things of earth and air;
Whatever wild romancers tell,

Or poets sing, or lovers swear,
You'll find at this our Fancy Fair.

Here

eyes are made like stars to shine, And kept, for years, in such repair, That ev'n when turn'd of thirty-nine, They'll hardly look the worse for wear, If bought at this our Fancy Fair.

We've lots of tears for bards to shower,
And hearts that such ill usage bear,

That, though they're broken ev'ry hour,
They'll still in rhyme fresh breaking bear,
If purchased at our Fancy Fair.

As fashions change in ev'ry thing,

We've goods to suit each season's air,
Eternal friendships for the spring,

And endless loves for summer wear,
All sold at this our Fancy Fair.

We've reputations white as snow,

That long will last, if used with care, Nay, safe through all life's journey go, If pack'd and mark'd as "brittle ware,”. Just purchased at the Fancy Fair.

IF THOU WOULD'ST HAVE ME SING AND

PLAY.

If thou would'st have me sing and play,

As once I play'd and sung,

First take this time-worn lute away,
And bring one freshly strung.

Call back the time when pleasure's sigh
First breathed among the strings;
And Time himself, in flitting by,
Made music with his wings.

But how is this? though new the lute,
And shining fresh the chords,
Beneath this hand they slumber mute,

Or speak but dreamy words.

In vain I seek the soul that dwelt

Within that once sweet shell,

Which told so warmly what it felt,
And felt what nought could tell.

Oh, ask not then for passion's lay,

From lyre so coldly strung; With this I ne'er can sing or play, As once I play'd and sung.

No, bring that long-loved lute again,— Though chill'd by years it be,

If thou wilt call the slumb'ring strain, 'Twill wake again for thee.

Tho' time have froz'n the tuneful stream Of thoughts that gush'd along,

One look from thee, like summer's beam,
Will thaw them into song.

Then give, oh give, that wakening ray,
And once more blithe and young,

Thy bard again will sing and play,
As once he play'd and sung.