"Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

Each Cupid stood with lighted match—
A broadside struck the smuggling foe,

And swept the whole unhallowed batch
Of falsehood to the depths below.

"Huzza, huzza! my Cupids all!"

Said Love, the little Admiral.


Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee,

Lovely phantom,—all in vain; Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,

Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain. Such doom, of old, that youth betided,

Who woo'd, he thought, some angel's charms, But found a cloud that from him glided,—

As thou dost from these outstretch'd arms.

Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest,"

Ere thy light hath vanish'd by; And 'tis when thou look'st divinest

Thou art still more sure to fly. Ev'n as the light'ning, that, dividing

The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me," Then flits again, its splendour hiding, —

Ev'n such the glimpse I catch of thee. o s


Then first from Love, in Nature's bow'rs,

Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flow'rs,

To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,

Till passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew,

To fix the model in his heart.

Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,

Till, lo, one touch his art defies;
The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,

But who could dare to paint those eyes?
'Twas all in vain the painter strove;

So turning to that boy divine,
"Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love,

"No hand should paint such eyes, but thine.'


Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me

Of past joys, now turn'd to pain;
Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,

But whose burning marks remain.
In each tone, some echo falleth

On my ear of joys gone by;
Ev'ry note some dream recalleth

Of bright hopes but born to die.

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Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,

Once more let thy numbers thrill;
Though death were in the strain they sing me,

I must woo its anguish still.
Since no time can e'er recover

Love's sweet light when once 'tis set, —
Better to weep such pleasures over,

Than smile o'er any left us yet.


Bright moon, that high in heav'n art shining,

All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night Thy own Endymion lay reclining,

And thou would'st wake him with a kiss of light !By all the bliss thy beam discovers,

By all those visions far too bright for day, Which dreaming bards and waking lovers

Behold, this night, beneath thy ling'ring ray, —

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,

Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea, Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given

Beneath thy beam, her long-vow'd kiss to me. Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,

Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide; Let Love but in this bow'r be lighted,

Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.


Long years have pass'd, old friend, since we

First met in life's young day;
And friends long lov'd by thee and me,

Since then have dropped away;—
But enough remain to cheer us on,

And sweeten, when thus we're met, The glass we fill to the many gone,

And the few who're left us yet.

Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow,

And some hang white and chill;
While some, like flow'rs 'mid Autumn's snow,

Retain youth's colour still.
And so, in our hearts, though one by one,

Youth's sunny hopes have set,
Thank heav'n, not all their light is gone,—

We've some to cheer us yet.

Then here's to thee, old friend, and long

May thou and I thus meet,
To brighten still with wine and song

This short life, ere it fleet.
And still as death comes stealing on,

Let's never, old friend, forget,
Ev'n while we sigh o'er blessings gone,

How many are left us yet.


Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming,

Life to the last pursues its flight;
Day hath its visions fairly beaming,

But false as those of night.
The one illusion, the other real,

But both the same brief dreams at last;
And when we grasp the bliss ideal,

Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,

Calmly I'll watch, while light and gloom
Flit o'er its face till night is closing—

Emblem of life's short doom!
But though, by turns, thus dark and shining,

'Tis still unlike man's changeful day,
Whose light returns not, once declining,

Whose cloud, once come, will stay.



Though lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,
Though like the lark's its soaring music be,
Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells
How near such April joy to weeping dwells.
'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oft'nest steal
Those sadd'ning thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;
And music never half so sweet appears,
As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

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