LEAVE ME NOT YET.- TIIE ORANGE BOUGH. 397

Through thy leaves come whispering low

Faint sweet sounds of long ago.

Willow, sighing willow!

Many a mournful tale of old
Heart-sick love to thee hath told,
Gathering from thy golden bough
Leaves to cool his burning brow.

Willow, sighing willow!

Many a swan-like song to thee

Hath been sung, thou gentle tree!

Many a lute its last lament

Down thy moonlight stream hath sent:

Willow, sighing willow!

Therefore, wave and murmur on!

Sigh for sweet affections gone,

And for tuneful voices fled,

And for love, whose heart hath bled,
Ever, willow, willow!

V.-LEAVE ME NOT YET.

LEAVE me not yet-through rosy skies from far,
But now the song-birds to their nests return;
The quivering image of the first pale star
On the dim lake scarce yet begins to burn:
Leave me not yet!

Not yet!-oh, hark! low tones from hidden streams,
Piercing the shivery leaves, even now arise;
Their voices mingle not with daylight dreams,
They are of vesper's hymns and harmonies:
Leave me not yet!

My thoughts are like those gentle sounds, dear love!
By day shut up in their own still recess,
They wait for dews on earth, for stars above,
Then to breathe out their soul of tenderness:
Leave me not yet!

VI. THE ORANGE BOUGH.

OH! bring me one sweet orange-bough,
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow;
One bough, with pearly blossoms drest,
And bind it, mother! on my breast!
Go, seek the grove along the shore,
Whose odors 1 must breathe no more;
VOL. II.-34

The grove where every scented tree
Thrills to the deep voice of the sea.

On! Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer,
And wild farewell, are lingering there:
Each leaf's light whisper hath a tone,
My faint heart, even in death, would own.
Then bear me thence one bough, to shed
Life s parting sweetness round my head,
And bind it, mother! on my breast
When I am laid in lonely rest.

VII. THE STREAM SET FREE.

FLOW on, rejoice, make music,

Bright living stream set free.

The troubled haunts of care and strife
Were not for thee!

The woodland is thy country,

Thou art all its own again;

The wild birds are thy kindred race,
That fear no chain.

Flow on, rejoice, make music

Unto the glistening leaves!

Thou, the beloved of balmy winds

And golden eves.

Once more the holy starlight

Sleeps calm upon thy breast,

Whose brightness bears no token more

Of man's unrest.

Flow, and let freeborn music

Flow with thy wavy line,

While the stock-dove's lingering, loving voice

Comes blent with thine.

And the green reeds quivering o'er thee,

Strings of the forest-lyre,

All fill'd with answering spirit-sounds,

In joy respire.

Yet, 'midst thy song's glad changes,

Oh! keep one pitying tone

For gentle hearts, that bear to thee
Their sadness lone.

One sound, of all the deepest,

To bring, like healing dew,
A sense, that nature ne'er forsakes
The meek and true.

THE SUMMER'S CALL.

Then, then, rejoice, make music,
Thou stream, thou glad and free!
The shadows of all glorious flowers
Be set in thee!

VIII.-THE SUMMER'S CALL.

COME away! the sunny hours
Woo thee far to founts and bowers.
O'er the very waters now,
In their play,

Flowers are shedding beauty's glow-
Come away!

Where the lily's tender gleam
Quivers on the glancing stream-
Come away!

All the air is filled with sound,
Soft, and sultry, and profound;
Murmurs through the shadowy grass
Lightly stray;

Faint winds whisper as they pass—
Come away;

Where the bee's deep music swells
From the trembling foxglove bells
Come away!

In the skies the sapphire blue
Now hath won its richest hue;
In the woods the breath of song
Night and day

Floats with leafy scents along-
Come away!

Where the boughs with dewy gloom
Darken each thick bed of bloom-
Come away!

In the deep heart of the rose
Now the crimson love-hue glows;
Now the glow-worm's lamp by night
Sheds a ray,

Dreamy, starry, greenly bright-
Come away!
Where the fairy cup-moss lies,
With the wild-wood strawberries,
Come away!

Now each tree by summer crown'd,
Sheds its own rich twilight round;
Glancing there from sun to shade,
Bright wings play;

399

There the deer its couch hath made-
Come away!

Where the smooth leaves of the lime
Glisten in their honey-time-
Come away-away!

ĮX.—OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING.

OH! Skylark, for thy wing!
Thou bird of joy and light,
That I might soar and sing
At heaven's empyreal height!

With the heathery hills beneath me,
Whence the streams in glory spring,
And the pearly clouds to wreath me,
Oh, Skylark! on thy wing!

Free, free from earth-born fear,
I would range the blessed skies,
Through the blue divinely clear,
Where the low mists cannot rise!
And a thousand joyous measures
From my chainless heart should spring,
Like the bright rain's vernal treasures,
As I wander'd on thy wing.

But oh! the silver chords,

That around the heart are spun,
From gentle tones and words,

And kind eyes that make our sun!
To some low sweet nest returning,
How soon my love would bring,
There, there the dews of morning,
Oh, Skylark! on thy wing!

GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE.

"That voice re-measures

Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of nature utter; birds or trees,

Or where the tall grass 'mid the heath-plant waves, Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze."-Coleridge.

I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind,

A song of many tones-though one full soul
Breathed through them all imploringly; and made
All nature as they pass'd, all quivering leaves
And low responsive reeds and waters thrill,
As with the consciousness of human prayer.
-At times the passion-kindled melody