DESMOND'S SONG.

Y the Feal's wave benighted,
No star in the skies,

To thy door by Love lighted,
I first saw those eyes.

Some voice whisper'd o'er me,
As the threshold I crost,
There was ruin before me,
If I loved, I was lost.

No-Man for his glory

To ancestry flies;
But Woman's bright story

Is told in her eyes.

While the Monarch but traces

Through mortals his line,
Beauty, born of the Graces,
Ranks next to Divine!

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

HE

sung of Love, while o'er her lyre

The rosy rays of evening fell,

As if to feed, with their soft fire,

The soul within that trembling shell, The same rich light hung o'er her cheek, And play'd around those lips that sung And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burn'd,

Each rosy ray from heav'n withdrew;

And, when to gaze again I turn'd,

The minstrel's form seem'd fading too.

As if her light and heav'n's were one, The glory all had left that frame; And from her glimmering lips the tone, As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever loved, but had the thought
That he and all he loved must part?
Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught
The fading image to my heart-
And cried, "O Love! is this thy doom?
O light of youth's resplendent day!

THE NIGHT DANCE.

TRIKE the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the

ocean,

Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,

Obey the mute call, and heave into motion.

Then, sound notes-the gayest, the lightest,

That ever took wing, when heav'n look'd brightest !
Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard

In that City of Statues described by romancers, So wak'ning its spell, even stone would be stirr'd, And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,

And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,
And list'ning to ours, hang wondering o'er us?
Again, that strain!-to hear it thus sounding
Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding—
Again! Again!

Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,

Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,

Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,

And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!