When the beautiful hue

Of thy cheek thro' the dew Of morning is bashfully peeping,

"Sweet tears," I shall say (As I brush them away), "At least there's no art in this weeping." Altho' thou shouldst die to-morrow, 'T will not be from pain or sorrow; And the thorns of thy stem Are not like them

With which men wound each other:
So my pretty Rose-tree,
Thou my mistress shalt be,
And I'll ne'er again sigh to another.

SHINE OUT, STARS!

SHINE out, Stars! let Heaven assemble
Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
All to grace this Eve of May.
Let the flower-beds all lie waking,
And the odors shut up there,
From their downy prisons breaking,
Fly abroad thro' sea and air.

And would Love, too, bring his sweet

ness,

With our other joys to weave,
Oh what glory, what completeness,

Then would crown this bright May
Eve!

Shine out, Stars! let night assemble

Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, To adorn this Eve of May.

THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF

GRENADA.

OH, the joys of our evening posada, Where, resting at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

Sit and sing the sunshine away;

So merry, that even the slumbers
That round us hung seem gone;
Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers
Again beguile them on.
Oh the joys, etc.

Then as each to his loved sultana
In sleep still breathes the sigh,
The name of some black-eyed Tirana
Escapes our lips as we lie.
Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,
Again we 're up and gone ·
While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle
Beguiles the rough way on.
Oh the joys of our merry posada,

Where, resting at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
Thus sing the gay moments away.

TELL HER, OH, TELL HER. TELL her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying

Beneath the green arbor is still lying there;

And breezes like lovers around it are sighing,

But not a soft whisper replies to their

prayer.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,

Beside the green arbor she playfully set,

As lovely as ever is blushing and blowing,

And not a bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

So while away from that arbor forsaken,

The maiden is wandering, still let her be As true as the lute that no sighing can waken

And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!

NIGHTS OF MUSIC. NIGHTS of music, nights of loving,

Lost too soon, remembered long.
When we went by moonlight roving,
Hearts all love and lips all song.
When this faithful lute recorded

All my spirit felt to thee;
And that smile the song rewarded
Worth whole years of fame to me!