And the many-voiced fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound,
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way.
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For one beloved friend alone.

то

HE keen stars were twinkling,
And the fair moon was rising among

them,

Dear

The guitar was tinkling,

But the notes were not sweet till you sung

them

Again.

As the moon's soft splendor

O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven
Is thrown,

So your voice most tender

To the strings without soul had then given Its own.

The stars will awaken,

Though the moon sleep a full hour later
To-night;

No leaf will be shaken

Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.

Though the sound overpowers,

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing A tone

Of some world far from ours, Where music and moonlight and feeling Are one.

LINES.

HEN the lamp is shattered,

The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scattered,

The rainbow's glory is shed;

When the lute is broken,

Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendor
Survive not the lamp and the lute,

The heart's echoes render

No song when the spirit is mute,
No song but sad dirges,

Like the wind through a ruined cell,

Or the mournful surges

That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled

To endure what it once possest.
O Love! who bewailest

The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest

For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee,

As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave thee naked to laughter,

When leaves fall and cold winds come.

THE INVITATION.

EST and brightest, come away,
Fairer far than this fair day,

Which like thee to those in sorrow
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough year just awake
In its cradle on the brake.

The brightest hour of unborn spring,
Through the winter wandering,
Found, it seems, the halcyon morn,
To hoar February born;

Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,
It kissed the forehead of the earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free,
And waked to music all their fountains,
And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
And like a prophetess of May

Strewed flowers upon the barren way,
Making the wintry world appear

Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
Away, away, from men and towns,