When all the weeping maid could say

Was, "Oh, soon return!"

Through many a clime our ship was driven,
O'er many a billow rudely thrown ;
Now chill'd beneath a northern heaven,
Now sunn'd in summer's zone:

And still, where'er we bent our way,

When evening bid the west wave burn, I fancied still I heard her say,

"Oh, soon return!"

If ever yet my bosom found

Its thoughts one moment turn'd from thee, 'Twas when the combat rag'd around, And brave men look'd to me.

But though the war-field's wild alarm
For gentle Love was all unmeet,
He lent to Glory's brow the charm,
Which made even danger sweet.
And still, when vict'ry's calm came o'er

The hearts where rage had ceas'd to burn,

Those parting words I heard once more,

66

'Oh, soon return! - Oh, soon return!"

Thou'rt lov'd, ador'd by me,

Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,

Were worthless without thee.

Though brimm'd with blessings, pure and rare,

Life's cup before me lay,

Unless thy love were mingled there,

I'd spurn the draught away. Love thee?-so well, so tenderly

Thou'rt lov'd, ador'd by me, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, Are worthless without thee.

Without thy smile, the monarch's lot
To me were dark and lone,
While, with it, ev'n the humblest cot
Were brighter than his throne.

Those worlds, for which the conqu'ror sighs,
For me would have no charms;
My only world thy gentle eyes -
My throne thy circling arms!
Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly
Thou'rt lov'd, ador'd by me,
Whole realms of light and liberty
Were worthless without thee.

ONE DEAR SMILE.

COULDST thou look as dear as when
First I sigh'd for thee;
Couldst thou make me feel again
Every wish I breath'd thee then,
Oh, how blissful life would be!

Hopes, that now beguiling leave me,
Joys, that lie in slumber cold—

All would wake, couldst thou but give me
One dear smile like those of old.

Never yet did heaven allow

Love so warm, so wild, to last.
Not even hope could now deceive me
Life itself looks dark and cold:

Oh, thou never more canst give me
One dear smile like those of old.

YES, YES, WHEN THE BLOOM.

YES, yes, when the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er,
He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay;

And, though Time may take from him the wings he

once wore,

The charms that remain will be bright as before,
And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away.

Then let it console thee, if Love should not stay,
That Friendship our last happy moments will crown:
Like the shadows of morning Love lessens away,
While Friendship, like those at the closing of day,

Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down.

THE DAY OF LOVE.

THE beam of morning trembling
Stole o'er the mountain brook,
With timid ray resembling

Affection's early look.

Thus love begins- sweet morn of love!

The noon-tide ray ascended,

And o'er the valley's stream

Diffus'd a glow as splendid
As passion's riper dream.

Thus love expands

warm noon of love!

But evening came, o'ershading

The glories of the sky,

Like faith and fondness fading,

From passion's alter'd eye.

Thus love declines- cold eve of love!

LUSITANIAN WAR-SONG.

THE song of war shall echo through our mountains, Till not one hateful link remains

Of slavery's lingering chains;

Till not one tyrant tread our plains,

Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains.
No! never till that glorious day
Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,

Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding through her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo through our mountains, Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say, "Your cloud of foes hath pass'd away,

"And Freedom comes, with new-born ray, "To gild your vines and light your fountains." Oh, never till that glorious day

Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,

Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay Resounding through her sunny mountains.

THE YOUNG ROSE.

THE young rose I give thee, so dewy and bright,
Was the flow'ret most dear to the sweet bird of night,
Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung,
And thrill'd ev'ry leaf with the wild lay he sung.

Oh, take thou this young rose, and let her life be Prolong'd by the breath she will borrow from thee; For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill, She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still

WHEN MIDST THE GAY I MEET.

WHEN midst the gay I meet

That gentle smile of thine,

Though still on me it turns most sweet,
I scarce can call it mine: