She hath lovely locks, that blossom
O'er a brow that's pure and fair,

And a silver-crested bosom,

Void of sorrow and of care.

She hath charms that waken gladness,
And a mind that's from above,
And a soul that chaseth sadness

To the land of truth and love.

I have never viewed a maiden
That did o'er my senses roll—
Such as she that now hath laden
All my hopes at her control.

In a garden, on the morrow,
Tracing letters on the sand,

A fair maid was seen in sorrow
With a lily in her hand.

Here I lay this token-flower,

Mid this scrip of bliss and woe, Should kind Heaven send a shower, Withering all my hopes below,

Blotting all these few fond traces,
Fading every leaf of thee,

Then, indeed, old Time erases
Every hope of him and me.

Touch not, oh, ye blessed powers, These, my fondest hopes below, Touch not this, my gem of flowers,Whither shall I from thee go?

Soft in silence, and in sorrow, Slowly strayed the maiden meek, Waiting half in hope the morrow,

What should this sad omen speak.

In a bower, near the ocean,

Of the river of despair,

With a sweet and gentle motion
See the maiden sleeping there.

In his study, sat the poet,

Blisses strange unto his mind,

Fill his heart, and overflow it
With a loving to his kind.

Sweetly clear the moon it glideth
On the bosom of the night,

And a gentle zephyr slideth
Like a love-beam of delight.

Passing beauty stood before him;
Soft blue eyes upon him gazed;
Take this lily; I adore him,

He for whom my fond heart's raised.

Love is lovely, born in heaven,
Life is but a passing breath,

He to whom my heart is given,
None shall sever, but in death.

Life hath much of bliss and power, When two souls are linked as one; Born beneath the self-same flower,

Once but severed, both undone.

Sweetly clear the moon it glideth
On the bosom of the night,

And a tender love abideth

Evermore in calm delight.

LOVE'S DESPAIR.

"Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,
I've seen my fondest hopes decay,
I never loved a tree or flower,
But 'twas the first to fade away;
I never loved a dear gazelle,

To glad me with its soft black eye,
But when it came to know me well,
And love me, it was sure to die."

MOORE.

THEY say
that she loves me,-I would it were true,
But the glances her eye gave were silent and few;
She cannot, she may not, she will not be mine,
I've loved and I've lost, and I live but to pine.

Sad tears are now flowing, the soul of my thought Hath gone but to sadden this dream that I sought;