The one forsakes ferocity, And momently grows mild; The other tempers more and more The artful with the wild. She humanizes him, and he III. O, say not they must soon be old,— Their limbs prove faint, their breasts feel cold! Yet envy I that sylvan pair More than my words express,The singular beauty of their lot, And seeming happiness. They have not been reduced to share Nor are their wishes cast, Repining towards the past: With nought to dread or to repent, The present yields them full content. In solitude there is no crime; Their actions all are free, And passion lends their way of life And how can they have any cares?— IV. The world, for all they know of it, The heavens above are bright; For them the moon doth wax and wane, For them the branches of those trees Upon delighted wings; For them that brook, the brakes among, Their shapes diversify, And change at once, like smiles and frowns, The expression of the sky. For them, and by them, all is gay, Their minds assimilate To outward forms, imparting thus V. Could aught be painted otherwise Than fair, seen through her star-bright eyes? He, too, because she fills his sight, Each object falsely sees; The pleasure that he has in her Makes all things seem to please. And this is love;-and it is life SONG. WE break the glass, whose sacred wine, To some beloved health we drain. Lest future pledges, less divine, Should e'er the hallow'd toy profane; But still the old, impassion'd ways Thine image chamber'd in my brain, And still it looks as when the hours Went by like flights of singing birds, Or that soft chain of spoken flowers, And airy gems--thy words. A HEALTH. I FILL this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, "Tis less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, Affections are as thoughts to her, The image of themselves by turns,- · Of her bright face one glance will trace And of her voice in echoing hearts I fill'd this cup to one made up A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon Her health and would on earth there stood, Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. THE VOYAGER'S SONG.* SOUND trumpets, ho!-weigh anchor-loosen sail- Flit we, a gliding dream, with troublous motion, Onward, my friends, to that bright, florid isle, For Bimini;-in its enchanted ground, The hallow'd fountains we would seek, are found; Hail, bitter birth!-once more my feelings all To earth by Age, the great Iconoclast. As from Gadara's founts they once could come, Charm-call'd, from these Love's genii shall arise, And build their perdurable home, MIRANDA, in thine eyes. The envious years, which steal our pleasures, thou A PICTURE-SONG. How may this little tablet feign The charms, that all must wonder at, But yet, methinks, that sunny smile And I should know those placid eyes, Two shaded crystal wells; Nor can my soul, the limner's art Attesting with a sigh, Forget the blood that deck'd thy cheek, As rosy clouds the sky. They could not semble what thou art, And pure as mountain-air; To such an aspect wrought, The song I sing, thy likeness like, Is painful mimicry Of something better, which is now Who have upon life's frozen sea Where man's magnetic feelings show The sportive hopes, that used to chase And on a careless, sullen peace, My double-fronted mind, Like JANUS when his gates were shut, Looks forward and behind. APOLLO placed his harp, of old, A breaking harp-string's tone; If touch'd, will yield the music yet, |