"Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!" Each Cupid stood with lighted match- STILL THOU FLIEST. STILL thou fliest, and still I woo thee, 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," And 'tis when thou look'st divinest Ev'n as the light'ning, that, dividing The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me," Then flits again, its splendour hiding,- THEN FIRST FROM LOVE. THEN first from Love, in Nature's bow'rs, To picture woman lovelier still. Thus smooth his toil awhile went on, So turning to that boy divine, "Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love, "No hand should paint such eyes, but thine." HUSH, SWEET LUTE. HUSH, Sweet Lute, thy songs remind me In each tone, some echo falleth Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me, 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. BRIGHT moon, that high in heav'n art shining, 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 I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven, Beneath thy beam, her long-vow'd kiss to me. 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. LONG years have pass'd, old friend, since we And friends long lov'd by thee and me, But enough remain to cheer us on, Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow, While some, like flow'rs 'mid Autumn's snow, 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. Ev'n while we sigh o'er blessings gone, How many are left us yet. DREAMING FOR EVER. DREAMING for ever, vainly dreaming, The one illusion, the other real, But both the same brief dreams at last; Soon as it shines, 'tis past. Here, then, by this dim lake reposing, But though, by turns, thus dark and shining, THOUGH LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING. A SONG OF THE ALPS. 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. |