SONG.

I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving:
O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;
Sweet little red feet! why should you die-
Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You lived alone in the forest-tree,

Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas;
Why not live sweetly, as in the

green trees?

1818.

FAERY SONG.

SHED no tear! O, shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more! O! weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
Dry your eyes! Oh! dry your eyes!
For I was taught in Paradise

To ease my breast of melodies

Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead!

'Mong the blossoms white and red-
Look up, look up. I flutter now
On this fresh pomegranate bough.
See me! 'tis this silvery bill
Ever cures the good man's ill.
Shed no tear! O shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.
Adieu, Adieu-I fly, adieu,

I vanish in the heaven's blue

Adieu, Adieu!

AH! woe is me! poor silver-wing!
That I must chant thy lady's dirge,
And death to this fair haunt of spring,
Of melody, and streams of flowery verge,—
Poor silver-wing! ah! woe is me!
That I must see

These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall!

Go, pretty page! and in her ear
Whisper that the hour is near!
Softly tell her not to fear
Such calm favonian burial!

Go, pretty page! and soothly tell,-
The blossoms hang by a melting spell,
And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice
Upon her closed eyes,

That now in vain are weeping their last tears,
At sweet life leaving, and those arbors green,—
Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres,-
Alas! poor Queen!

EXTRACTS FROM AN OPERA.

O! WERE I one of the Olympian twelve,
Their godships should pass this into a law,—
That when a man doth set himself in toil
After some beauty veiled far away,

Each step he took should make his lady's hand

More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more fair;

And for each brier-berry he might eat,

A kiss should bud upon the tree of love,
And pulp and ripen richer every hour,
To melt away upon the traveler's lips.

O, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts!
Perhaps her voice is not a nightingale's,
Perhaps her teeth are not the fairest pearl;
Her eye-lashes may be, for aught I know,
Not longer than the May-fly's small fan-horns;
There may not be one dimple on her hand;
And freckles many; ah! a careless nurse,
In haste to teach the little thing to walk,
May have crumpt up a pair of Dian's legs,
And warpt the ivory of a Juno's neck.

My lady's maid had a silken scarf,

And a golden ring had she,

And a kiss from the stranger, as off he went

Again on his fair palfrey.