When my faults were all forgiven, And love for all that long ago; 'Tis all that I can say ; I love thee - I love thee! I love thee I love thee! Thy bright and hazel glance, The mellow lute upon those lips, Whose tender tones entrance; But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs That still these words enhance, I love thee I love thee! Whatever be thy chance. SERENADE. АH, sweet, thou little knowest how Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 'T is sweet enough to make me weep, That tender thought of love and thee, That while the world is hushed so deep, Thy soul's perhaps awake to me! Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep! power Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurled, That I alone, at this still hour, In patient love outwatch the world. VERSES IN AN ALBUM. FAR above the hollow Cloud doth never shade him, Nor a storm invade him, On his joyous throne. So when I behold me In an orb as bright, How thy soul doth fold me In its throne of light! Sorrow never paineth Nor a care attaineth, To that blessed height. BALLAD. It was not in the winter We plucked them as we passed! That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet! O, no the world was newly crowned 'T was twilight, and I bade you go, We plucked them as we passed! THE ROMANCE OF COLOGNE. 'T IS even on the pleasant banks of Rhine The thrush is singing and the dove is cooing: A youth and maiden on the turf recline Alone and he is wooing. Yet woos in vain, for to the voice of love Untouched by lovely Nature and her laws, Fair is she as the dreams young poets weave, But cold as nymph of Lurley. The more Love tries her pity to engross, The more she chills him with a strange behavior; Forth the lover with a farewell moan, goes As from the presence of a thing unhuman; 'Tis midnight and the moonbeam, cold and wan, On bower and river quietly is sleeping, And o'er the corse of a self-murdered man The maiden fair is weeping. In vain she looks into his glassy eyes, No pressure answers to her hands so pressing; Despairing, stunned, by her eternal loss, She flies to succor that may best beseem her; With stern right hand it stretches forth a scroll, The cruel, fatal pact that placed her soul "Wretch! sinner! renegade to truth and God! And side by side the hapless lovers lie; THE KEY. A MOORISH ROMANCE. "On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still preserve the keys of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to which country they still express the hopes of one day returning, and again planting the Crescent on the ancient walls of the Alhambra." SCOTT'S TRAVELS IN MOROCCO AND ALGIERS. "Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want closing?"-SANCHO PANZA. THE Moor leans on his cushion, One hand is on his pistol, On its ornamented stock, While his finger feels the trigger And is busy with the lock |