MAY MORN SONG.

'Tis early prime ;

And hark! hark! hark !

His merry chime

Chirrups the lark :

Chirrup! chirrup ! he heralds in
The jolly sun with matin hymn.

Come, come, my love! and May-dews shake
In pailfuls from each drooping bough;
They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom,

That breaks upon thy young cheek now.
O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood,
Aurora's smiles are streaming free ;
With earth it seems brave holyday,
In heaven it looks high jubilee.
And it is right,

For mark, love, mark!

How bathed in light

Chirrups the lark:

Chirrup! chirrup! he upward flies,
Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies.

They lack all heart who cannot feel

The voice of heaven within them thrill, In summer morn when mounting high This merry minstrel sings his fill.

Now let us seek yon bosky dell

Where brightest wild-flowers choose to be, And where its clear stream murmurs on, Meet type of our love's purity;

No witness there,

And o'er us hark!

High in the air

Chirrups the larks :

Chirrup! chirrup! away soars he,

Bearing to heaven my vows to thee!

115

XLIV.

THE BLOOM HATH FLED THY CHEEK, MARY.

THE bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary,

As spring's rath blossoms die,

And sadness hath o'ershadowed quite

Thy once bright eye ;

But, look on me, the prints of grief
Still deeper lie.
Farewell!

Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary,
Thy step is sad and slow,

The morn of gladness hath gone by
Thou erst didst know;

I, too, am changed like thee, and weep
For very woe.

Farewell!

It seems as 'twere but yesterday
We were the happiest twain,

When murmured sighs and joyous tears,
Dropping like rain,

Discoursed my love and told how loved
I was again.

Farewell!

'Twas not in cold and measured phrase
We gave our passion name;
Scorning such tedious eloquence,

Our heart's fond flame

And long imprisoned feelings fast

In deep sobs came.

Farewell!

Would that our love had been the love

That merest worldlings know,

When passion's draught to our doomed lips

But in the wreck of all our hopes,
There's yet some touch of bliss,
Since fate robs not our wretchedness
Of this last kiss :

Despair, and love, and madness, meet
In this, in this.

Farewell!

XLV.

IN THE QUIET AND SOLEMN NIGHT.

IN the quiet and solemn night,

When the moon is silvery bright,
Then the screech owl's eerie cry
Mocks the beauties of the sky:
Tu whit, tu whoo,

Its wild halloo

Doth read a drowsy homily.

From yon old castle's chimneys tall,
The bat on leathern sail doth fall

In wanton-wise to skim the earth,

And flout the mouse that gave it birth.

Tu whit, tu whoo,

That wild haloo

Hath marred the little monster's mirth.

Fond lovers seek the dewy vale,
That swimmeth in the moonshine pale ;
But maids! beware, when in your ear
The screech-owl screams so loud and clear:
Tu whit, tu whoo,

Its wild halloo

Doth speak of danger lurking near.

It bids beware of murmured sigh,
Of air-spun oath and wistful eye ;
Of star that winks to conscious flower
Through the roof of leaf-clad bower :
Tu whit, tu whoo,

That wild halloo

Bids startled virtue own its power!

XLVI.

THE VOICE OF LOVE.

WHEN shadows o'er the landscape creep,
And twinkling stars pale vigils keep;
When flower-cups all with dew-drops gleam,
And moonshine floweth like a stream;

Then is the hour

That hearts which love no longer dream,

Then is the hour

That the voice of love is a spell of power!

When shamefaced moonbeams kiss the lake,

And amorous leaves sweet music wake;
When slumber steals o'er every eye,
And Dian's self shines drowsily;

Then is the hour

That hearts which love with rapture sigh,

Then is the hour

That the voice of love is a spell of power!

When surly mastiffs stint their howl,
And swathed in moonshine nods the owl;
When cottage-hearths are glimmering low,
And warder cocks forget to crow;

Then is the hour

That hearts feel passion's overflow,

Then is the hour

That the voice of love is a spell of power!

When stilly night seems earth's vast grave,
Nor murmur comes from wood or wave;
When land and sea, in wedlock bound
By silence, sleep in bliss profound;
Then is the hour

That hearts like living well-springs sound,-
Then is the hour

That the voice of love is a spell of power!

XLVII.

AWAY! AWAY! O, DO NOT SAY.

AWAY! away! O, do not say

He can prove false to me :

Let me believe but this brief day

In his fidelity;

Tell me, that rivers backward flow,

That unsunned snows like fire-brands glow, I may believe that lay,