Though 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 wak'ning ray,
And once more blithe and young,
Thy bard again will sing and play,
As once he played and sung.

THE WORLD WAS HUSH'D.

THE world was hush'd, the moon above
Sail'd through ether slowly,

When, near the casement of my love,
Thus I whisper'd lowly,—

"Awake, awake, how canst thou sleep?
The field I seek to-morrow

Is one where man hath fame to reap,
And woman gleans but sorrow."

Let battle's field be what it may,"
Thus spoke a voice replying,

"Think not thy love, while thou'rt away.
Will here sit idly sighing.
No-woman's soul, if not for fame,

For love can brave all danger!"

Then forth from out the casement came
A plum'd and armed stranger.

A stranger? No; 'twas she, the maid,
Herself before me beaming,

With casque array'd, and falchion blade
Beneath her girdle gleaming!
Close side by side, in freedom's fight,
That blessed morning found us;

In Vict'ry's light we stood ere night,
And Love, the morrow, crown'd us!

LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.

YOUNG Love found a Dial once, in a dark shade, Where man ne'er had wander'd nor sunbeam played;

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Why thus in darkness lie," whisper'd young Love;

Thou, whose gay hours in sunshine should move?" I ne'er," said the Dial, "have seen the warm sun, So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one."

Then Love took the Dial away from the shade,
And placed her where Heav'n's beam warmly play'd.
There she reclin'd, beneath Love's gazing eye,
While, mark'd all with sunshine, her hours flew by.
"Oh, how," said the Dial, " can any fair maid,
That's born to be shone upon, rest in the shade?"

But night now comes on, and the sunbeam's o'er, And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more. Alone and neglected, while bleak rain and winds Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds That Love had but number'd a few sunny hours,— Then left the remainder to darkness and showers!

DREAMING FOR EVER.

DREAMING for ever, vainly dreaming,
Life to the last pursues its flight;
Day hath its visions fairly beaming,
But false as those of night.

The one illusion, the other real,

But both the same brief dreams at last;
And when we grasp the bliss ideal,

Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,
Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom
Flit o'er its face till night is closing—
Emblem of life's short doom!

But though, by turns, thus dark and shining,
'Tis still unlike man's changeful day,

Whose light returns not, once declining,
Whose cloud, once come, will stay.

POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

Poor broken flow'r! what art can now recover thee?
Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath-
In vain the sun-beams seek

To warm that faded cheek;

The dews of heav'n, that once like balm fell over thee,
Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,—
Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;
In vain the smiles of all

Like sun-beams round her fall;

The only smile that could from death awaken her,
That smile, alas is gone to others now.

DEAR FANNY.

"SHE has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so:"

Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool,

And 'tis not the first time I have thought so,
Dear Fanny,

'Tis not the first time I have thought so.

"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly;
'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season:"
Thus Love has advis'd me, and who will deny
That Love reasons much better than Reason,
Dear Fanny?

Love reasons much better than Reason.

BRIGHT MOON.

BRIGHT moon, that high in heav'n art shining,
All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night

Thy own Endymion lay reclining,

And thou would'st wake him with a kiss of light!—

By all the bliss thy beam discovers,

By all those visions far too bright for day,

Which dreaming bards and waking lovers

Behold, this night, beneath thy ling'ring ray,

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,

Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea,
Till Anthe, in this bow'r, hath given

Beneath thy beam, her long-vow'd kiss to me.
Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,

Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide;

Let Love but in this bow'r be lighted,

Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.

WOULDST know what tricks, by the pale moonlight,
Are play'd by me, the merry little Sprite,
Who wing through air from the camp to the court,
From king to clown, and of all make sport;

Singing, I am the Sprite

Of the merry midnight,

Who laugh at weak mortals, and love the moonlight.

To a miser's bed, where he snoring slept

And dreamt of his cash, I slily crept;

Chink, chink o'er his pillow like money I rang,
And he waked to catch-but away I sprang,
Singing, I am the Sprite, &c.