Nor canst thou boast the many-tinted robe
Worn by thy beauteous herald, dewy Eve,
Thine is a veil of

gray, Meet for the cloister'd maid.

Thou nurse of saddening thoughts, prolong thy stay, Let me adore thee still! Eve’s glowing grace,

Night's fire-embroider'd vest,

Alike displease my eye.
For I am sorrow's child, and thy cold showers,
Thy mist-encircled forms, thy doubtful shapes,

Wake a responsive chord

Within my troubled soul.
For, oh! to me futurity appears
Wrapt in a chilling veil of glooms and mists,

Nor seems one tint or star

To deck her furrow'd brow;
But slowly cross her path, imperfect shapes
Of danger-sorrow, frenzy, and despair,

Force their uneasy way,

And pale my cold, sunk cheek. But see—the unwelcome Moon unveils her head, (Those hours are gone in which I hail'd her beams)

Distinctness spreads around,

And mimic day appears.
I loathe the cheerful sight, as still my fate,
O Twilight! bears a hue resembling thine;

And, envy-struck, I shun
The scene I cannot share.

I'll to my couch, yet not, alas! to rest;
By artificial gloom I'll suit my soul;
And e'en from pity hide
My dim and sleepless eyes.



Lady, too fair! the sleepless mariner,

With anxious heart, scanneth the midnight sky, On one bright star alone, though hosts shine near,

Fixing his eye. For, though the sea in cloud-high waves may rise,

Though the storm rage, and felon winds rebel, He knows that sweet star beameth in the skies

Unchangeable. Alas! for him who life's rough sea would try,

Fixing his gaze on meteors blazing far, Making the changeful beam of beauty's eye

His polar star. The seaman trusts, indeed, nor trusts in vain,

For constant are the bright-eyed host of heaven; While the swift changing of the fickle main

To beauty's given.

But thou! who in the pride of beauty brave,

Shinest brighter than the fairest star on high, Take not thy pattern from the fickle wave,

But from the sky.



It is May! it is May!

And all earth is gay,
For at last old Winter is quite away;
He linger'd a while in his cloak of snow,
To see the delicate primrose blow;
He saw it, and made no longer stay-

And now it is May! it is May!

It is May! it is May!
And we bless the day,
When we first delightfully so can say.
April had beams amid her showers,
Yet bare were her gardens, and cold her bowers;
And her frown would blight, and her smile

But now it is May! it is May!
It is May! it is May!

And the slenderest spray
Holds up a few leaves to the ripening ray;
And the birds sing fearlessly out on high,
For there is not a cloud in the calm blue sky;
And the villagers join their roundelay-
For, O! it is May! it is May!

It is May! it is May!

And the flowers obey
The beams which alone are more bright than they:
Up they spring at the touch of the sun,
And opening their sweet eyes, one by one,
In a language of beauty they seem all to say-

And of perfumes—'Tis May! it is May!
It is May! it is May!
And delights, that lay
Chill'd and enchain'd beneath Winter's sway,
Break forth again o'er the kindling soul,
And soften and soothe it, and bless it whole:
Oh! thoughts more tender than words convey,
Sigh out-It is May! it is May!


A star is gone! a star is gone!

There is a blank in heaven!
One of the cherub-choir has done

His airy course this even.

He sat upon the orb of fire

That hung for ages there; And lent his music to the choir

That haunts the nightly air.

But when his thousand years were past,

With a cherubic sigh
He vanish'd with his car at last-

For even cherubs die.

Hark how his angel-brethren mourn,

The minstrels of the spheres! Each chiming sadly in his turn,

And dropping splendid tears.

The planetary sisters all.

Join in the mournful song,
And weep their hapless brother's fall

Who sang with them so long.

But deepest of the choral band

The lunar Spirit sings,
And with a bass-according hand

Sweeps all her sullen strings.

From the bright chambers of the dome

Where sleepless Uriel lies,
His rude harmonic thunders come

Mingled with mighty sighs.

The thousand car-bound cherubim,

The wandering Eleven,
All join to chant the dirge of him

Who fell just now from heaven.

ANON. TO HER DAUGHTER ADA. THINE is the smile, and thine the bloom,

Where hope might fancy ripen'd charms; But mine is dyed in memory's gloom

Thou art not in a father's arms!
And there I could have loved thee most,

And there have own'd thou wert so dear,
That, though my worldly all were lost,
I still had feli my,

life was here! What art thou now?-A monument,

Which rose to weep o'er buried love; A fond and filial mourner, sent

To dream of ties, restored above! Thou, Dove! who may'st not find a rest,

Save in this frail and shatter'd bark, A lonely mother's offer'd breast,

May Heaven provide a surer ark, To bear thee over Sorrow's waves,

Which deluge still this world below! Till thou, through Him alone that saves,

A holier Ararat shalt know. Nor think me frozen, if for thee

No earthly wish now claims a partToo dear such wish; too vain to me; Thou art not in a father's heart!


THE dove let loose in eastern skies,

Returning fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies

Where idle warblers roam;

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