The quiet taper burns,

And makes thy casement bright, And soft thy shadow falls

Between me and the light; I gaze as on a shrine

My heart would bend before ; My couch had seen no rest,

Had I not seen thy door.

The night, as if to breathe,

Her starry curtain parts; The very air seems faint

With breath of lovers' hearts : Some spirit robes the earth

In light that heaven wore ; Or is that light thine own;

And is that heaven thy door ?

TO THE LARK.

(From Swain's English Melodies.)

Wherefore is thy flight so free ? Singing-soaring-day by day; Thou’rt a bird of low degree !

Tirral-la ! Scarcely shelter'd from the mould,

We thy humble nest can see; Wherefore is thy song so bold, Little bird of low degree?

Tirral-la! Tirral-la!

Humbly though my dwelling lie,

Next door neighbour to the earth; Rank, though lifted ne'er so high, Cannot soar like humble worth :

Tirral-la!
Shall I silently repine

When these birds of loftier airs
Say no parent race of mine
Built a nest as high as theirs ?

Tirral-la! Tirral-la !

Give me but a summer morn,

Sweet with dew and golden light,
And the richest plumage born
Well may envy me my flight!

Tirral-la!
Through the azure halls of day

Where the path of freedom lies,
Tirral-la! is still my lay-
Onward, upward to the skies

Tirral-la! Tirral-Ia !

R. CLAY, PRINTER, LONDON.