Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 'Tis sweet enough to make me weep, That tender thought of love and thee, That while the world is hush'd so deep, Thy soul's perhaps awake to me!

II.

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep With golden visions for thy dower, While I this midnight vigil keep,

And bless thee in thy silent bower; To me 'tis sweeter than the power Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurl'd, That I alone, at this still hour,

In patient love outwatch the world.

BALLAD.

I.

It was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses,-
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!

II.

That churlish season never frown'd

On early lovers yet!

Oh, no-the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met.

III.

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;

It was the time of roses,-
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!

BALLAD.

I.

SPRING it is cheery,
Winter is dreary,

Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; When he's forsaken,

Wither'd and shaken,

What can an old man do but die?

Youth it is sunny,

Age has no honey,

What can an old man do but die?

III.

June it was jolly,
O for its folly!

A dancing leg and a laughing eye;
Youth may be silly,

Wisdom is chilly,

What can an old man do but die?

IV.

Friends they are scanty,
Beggars are plenty,

If he has followers, I know why;
Gold's in his clutches,

(Buying him crutches!)—

What can an old man do but die?

BALLAD.

SHE'S up and gone, the graceless Girl
And robb'd my failing years;
My blood before was thin and cold
But now 'tis turn'd to tears;—
My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand,
She might have stayed a little yet,
And led me by the hand!

Ay, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill,
'Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plover's answer shrill;
My child is flown on wilder wings,

Than they have ever spread, And I may even walk a waste That widen'd when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been, But never one like mine;

Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine;

But now she'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,
Before her feet will turn again
To meet her father's will!

BALLAD.

SIGH on sad heart, for Love's eclipse
And Beauty's fairest queen,
Tho' 'tis not for my peasant lips
To soil her name between:
A king might lay his sceptre down,
But I am poor and nought,
The brow should wear a golden crown
That wears her in its thought.

The diamonds glancing in her hair,
Whose sudden beams surprise,
Might bid such humble hopes beware
The glancing of her eyes;

Yet looking once, I look'd too long,
And if my love is sin,

Death follows on the heels of wrong,

And kills the crime within.

Her dress seem'd wove of lily leaves, It was so pure and fine,

O lofty wears, and lowly weaves,

But hoddan gray is mine;
And homely hose must step apart,
Where garter'd princes stand,
But may he wear my love at heart
That wins her lily hand!

Alas! there's far from russet frize
To silks and satin gowns,

But I doubt if God made like degrees,
In courtly hearts and clowns. 貫
My father wrong'd a maiden's mirth,
And brought her cheeks to blame,
And all that's lordly of my birth,
Is my reproach and shame!

'Tis vain to weep,-'tis vain to sigh,
'Tis vain this idle speech,
For where her happy pearls do lie,
My tears may never reach;
Yet when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride
May say of what has been,
His love was nobly born and died,
Tho' all the rest was mean!

My speech is rude, but speech is weak
Such love as mine to tell,
Yet had I words, I dare not speak,
So, Lady, fare thee well;

I will not wish thy better state
Was one of low degree,

But I must weep that partial fate
Made such a churl of me.