Shall we, like those who rove
Through bright Grenada's grove,
To the light Bolero's measures move?
Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay,
And thus to its sound die away?

Strike the gay chords,

Let us hear each strain from ev'ry shore

That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er.

Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time,

The Polish lady, by her lover led,

Delights through gay saloons with step untired to tread, Or sweeter still, through moonlight walks,

Whose shadows serve to hide

The blush that's rais'd by him who talks

Of love the while by her side;

Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound Like dreams we go gliding around,

Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?

THE EVENING GUN.

REMEMB'REST thou that setting sun,

The last I saw with thee,

When loud we heard the evʼning gun
Peal o'er the twilight sea?

Boom! the sounds appear'd to sweep

Far o'er the verge of day,

Till, into realms beyond the deep,

They seem'd to die away.

Oft, when the toils of day are done,

In pensive dreams of thee,

I sit to hear that ev'ning gun,

Peal o'er the stormy sea.

Boom! and while, o'er billows curl'd,

The distant sounds decay,

I weep and wish, from this rough world, Like them, to die away.

TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.

TO-DAY, dearest! is ours;

Why should Love carelessly lose it? This life shines or lowers

Just as we, weak mortals, use it. 'Tis time enough, when its flow'rs decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow; And Joy, if left on the stem to-day, May wither before to-morrow.

Then why, dearest ! so long

Let the sweet moments fly over? Though now, blooming and young,

Thou hast me devoutly thy lover : Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse, Some treasure may steal or borrow;

Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, Or I less in love to-morrow.

WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.

WHEN on the lip the sigh delays,

As if 'twould linger there for ever; When eyes would give the world to gaze, Yet still look down, and venture never; When, though with fairest nymphs we rove, There's one we dream of more than anyIf all this is not real love,

'Tis something wond'rous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart,
On all we've got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,
Sit mute, and listen to their beating:
To see but one bright object move,

The only moon, where stars are many

If all this is not downright love,

I prithee say what is, my Fanny !

When Hope foretells the brightest, best,
Though Reason on the darkest reckons ;

When Passion drives us to the west,

Though Prudence to the eastward beckons ; When all turns round, below, above, And our own heads the most of any

If this is not stark, staring love,

Then you and I are sages, Fanny.

HERE, TAKE MY HEART.

HERE, take my heart-'twill be safe in thy keeping, While I go wand'ring o'er land and o'er sea; Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,

What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If, in the race we are destin'd to run, love,

They who have light hearts the happiest be, Then, happier still must be they who have none, love, And that will be my case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover,

I care not how many bright eyes I may see; Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her, I'd tell her I couldn't-my heart is with thee.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and fonder

-

For, even should Fortune turn truant to me,
Why, let her go—I've a treasure beyond her,
As long as my heart's out at int'rest with thee!

OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.

Он, call it by some better name,
For Friendship sounds too cold,
While Love is now a worldly flame,
Whose shrine must be of gold;
And Passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o'er all he sees,
Awhile as warm, will set as soon-
Then, call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far,

More free from stain of clay Than Friendship, Love, and Passion are, Yet human still as they :

And if thy lip, for love like this,

No mortal word can frame,

Go, ask of angels what it is,

And call it by that name!

POOR WOUNDED HEART.

POOR wounded heart, farewell!
Thy hour of rest is come;

Thou soon wilt reach thy home,
Poor wounded heart, farewell!
The pain thou❜lt feel in breaking
Less bitter far will be,

Than that long, deadly aching,
This life has been to thee.

There-broken heart, farewell!

The pang is o'er

The parting pang is o'er;
Thou now wilt bleed no more,
Poor broken heart, farewell!

No rest for thee but dying-
Like waves, whose strife is past,
On death's cold shore thus lying,
Thou sleep'st in peace at last-
Poor broken heart, farewell'