Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,

Have sought that Eden in its light
Which dreaming poets sing;-

That Eden where th' immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,-

Whose bow'rs beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.

Ah dream too full of sadd'ning truth! Those mansions o'er the main

Are like the hopes I built in youth,As sunny and as vain!


HEN, fare thee well, my own dear love,
This world has now for us
No greater grief, no pain above

The pain of parting thus,
Dear love!

The pain of parting thus.

Had we but known, since first we met,

Some few short hours of bliss,

We might, in numb'ring them, forget

The deep, deep pain of this,
Dear love!

The deep, deep pain of this.

But no, alas! we've never seen

One glimpse of Pleasure's ray,

But still there came some cloud between, And chased it all away,

Dear love!

And chased it all away.

Yet, ev'n could those sad moments last,

Far dearer to my heart

Were hours of grief, together past,

Than years of mirth apart,

Dear love!

Than years of mirth apart.

Farewell! our hope was born in fears,
And nursed 'mid vain regrets ;
Like winter suns, it rose in tears,
Like them in tears it sets,

Dear love!

Like them in tears it sets.


LOVE a maid, a mystic maid,

Whose form no eyes but mine can see ;
She comes in light, she comes in shade,
And beautiful in both is she.
Her shape in dreams I oft behold,
And oft she whispers in my ear

Such words as when to others told,
Awake the sigh, or wring the tear ;-

Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow

Come o'er me in my darkest ways; And feel as if her voice, ev'n now, Were echoing far off my lays.

There is no scene of joy or woe

But she doth gild with influence bright;

And shed o'er all so rich a glow,

As makes ev'n tears seem full of light:

Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.



HIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep,-
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,

Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.

So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,

The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,

Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,

And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,

Through fields full of light, and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,' And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet ;-while Idleness weaves These flow'rets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves, From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.


AREWELL!-but whenever you welcome the


That awakens the night-song of mirth in your


Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you.

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles-
Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmur'd, "I wish he were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd--
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

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