With modest air she drooped her head,
Her cheek of beauty veiling;
Her bosom heav'd,-no word she said
I mark'd her strife of feeling;

;

Oh speak my doom dear maid," I cried, "By yon bright Heaven above thee ;” She gently raised her eyes and sighed, "Too well you know I love thee."

SERENADE.

The blue waves are sleeping;
The breezes are still;
The light dews are weeping
Soft tears on the hill;
The moon in mild beauty,
Looks bright from above;
Then come to the casement,
Oh MARY my love.

Not a sound, or a motion
Is over the lake,

But the whisper of ripples,

As shoreward they break;
My skiff wakes no ruffle

The waters among,
Then listen dear maid

To thy true lover's song,

No form from the lattice

Did ever recline,

Over Italy's waters,

More lovely than thine; Then come to the window And shed from above, One glance of thy dark eye, One smile of thy love.

Oh! the soul of that eye

When it breaks from its shroud,

Shines beauteously out,

Like the Moon from a cloud;

And thy whisper of love

Breathed thus from afar,

Is sweeter to me

Than the sweetest guitar.

From the storms of this world

How gladly I'd fly,

To the calm of that breast,

To the heaven of that eye;

How deeply I love thee

'Twere useless to tell;

Farewell then my dear one,
My MARY, farewell.

ROUSSEAU'S DREAM.*

AIR-Rousseau's Dream.

Life for me is dark and dreary;
Every light is quenched and gone;
O'er its waste all lone and weary,
Sorrow's child I journey on.

Thou whose smile alone can cheer me;

Whose bright form still haunts my breast;

From this world in pity bear me,
To thy own high home of rest.

Hush!--o'er Leman's sleeping water,
Whispering tones of love I hear;
'Tis some fond unearthly daughter,
Woo's me to her own bright sphere.
Immortal beauty! yes, I see thee,

Come, oh! come to this wild breast;
O! I fly I burn to meet thee,
Take me to thy home of rest.

--wild Rousseau,

Th' Apostle of affliction, &c.

His was not the love of mortal dame

But of ideal beauty, &c.-CHILDE HAROLD.

THO' DARK FATE HATH REFT ME.

Tho' dark Fate hath reft me

Of all that was sweet,

And widely we sever,

Too widely to meet,
O yet while one life pulse
Remains in this heart,

'Twill remember thee, MARY,
Wherever thou art.

How sad were the glances
At parting we threw,
No word was there spoken
But the stifled adieu;
My lips, o'er thy cold cheek

All raptureless past,
'Twas the first time 1 prest it,

It must be the last.

But why should I dwell thus
On scenes that but pain,
Or think on thee, MARY,
When thinking is vain;
Thy name to this bosom,

Now sounds like a knell;
My fond one, my dear one,
For ever,-Farewell!

WHEN EACH BRIGHT STAR IS CLOUDED.

AIR-" Clür Bug Dale.”

When each bright star is clouded that illumin'd our way,
And darkly thro' the bleak night of life we stray,
What joy then is left us: but alone to weep
O'er the cold dreary pillow where loved ones sleep.

This world has no pleasure that is half so dear,
That can soothe the widow'd bosom, like memory's

tear,

'Tis the desert rose drooping in moon's soft dew, In those pure drops looks saddest, but softest too.

Oh if ever death should sever fond hearts from me, And I linger, like the last leaf on Autumn's tree, While pining o'er the dead mates all sear❜d below, How welcome will the last blast be that lays me low.