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And now it is passing over the river,
I know by the water's timid quiver.

Balmy breeze!-I behold not thee,
But, Oh! how beautiful thou inust be!
Come, thou breeze, from the bloomy South,
Kiss my lips with thy tender mouth ;
Touch my brow with thy delicate hand,
And take me away to thy Southern land;
Then never, breeze invisible, roam,
But dwell with me in thy spirit's home.



-The imperial votaress passed on

In maiden meditation, fancy free.

Midsummer's Night Dream.

Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?
BENEDICT, in Much Ado about Nothing.

WHEN the tree of love is budding first,

Ere yet its leaves are green,

Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nurst
Its infant life has been;

The wild bee's slightest touch might wring
The buds from off the tree,

As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing
Breaks the bubbles on the sea.


But when its open leaves have found
A home in the free air,

Pluck them, and there remains a wound
That ever rankles there.

The blight of hope and happiness

Is felt when fond ones part, And the bitter tear that follows is The life-blood of the heart.

When the flame of love is kindled first,
"T is the fire-fly's light at even,
'T is dim as wandering stars that burst
In the blue of the summer heaven.
A breath can bid it burn no more,
Or if, at times, its beams

Come on the memory, they pass o'er
Like shadows in our dreams.

But when that flame has blazed into
A being and a power,

And smiled in scorn upon the dew

That fell in its first warm hour,


"T is the flame that curls round the martyr's head,

Whose task is to destroy !

'T is the lamp on the altars of the dead,

Whose light is not of joy!

Then crush, even in their hour of birth,

The infant buds of Love,

And tread his growing fire to earth,



Ere 't is dark in clouds above;
Cherish no more a cypress tree
To shade thy future years,
Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be
Quenched only with thy tears.




FAIR lot befall the minstrel!
Bright sky and shadeless earth.

ye what his deep eyes tell-
The wizard poet's birth--
Ye sprites, whose charge of duty
Is over land and sea,

To breathe the tints of beauty,
And rear the strong and free-

Let spring for him the fountains,
And spread for him the bower,
Pile high the 'battled mountains,
Unfold the simple flower;
Let all be for the minstrel,

For he is born of them,

To weave for him the song-spell,
To stud his diadem.




his boundless empire

Upon the midnight air, With pencils of the red fire—

He walks a monarch there!
Nevis be his high altar,

Its clouds his temple dome,
His brave heart shall not falter-
The minstrel-priest shall come.

And when the day is glowing
Above the windless deep,
The glassy waves are flowing
With slow and idle sweep,
Then launch him in a light boat
Upon the slumbering main,

That he may know what dreams float
O'er ocean's mighty brain.

And fair befall the minstrel
Within the homes of men!
Ye fairy elves that aye dwell
By highland hill and glen,
Lead ye his footsteps ever,
At rosy dawn and eve,
When bright leaves toss and quiver,
And pearly dew-nets weave.

In princely halls of wassail
Fill him the cup of cheer,
While o'er the conqueror's festal




His harp is linging clear;
And in the humble shealing
Spread fresh his heather bed,
That dreams from perfume stealing
May wreath his sleeping head.

So through life's deserts dreary,
Lone waste and busy town,
His step may ne'er grow weary,
His smooth brow never frown;
And when his quick glance slumbers
From aught of earth or air,
Breathe o'er his rest soft numbers-
So let his lot be fair!



COME, mariner, down in the deep with me,
And hide thee under the wave-
For I have a bed of coral for thee;
And quiet and sound shall thy slumbers be
In a cell in the Mermaid's cave.

On a pillow of pearls thine eye shall sleep,
And nothing disturb thee there;

The fishes their silent vigils shall keepThere shall be no grass thy grave to sweep But the silk of the Mermaid's hair.

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