TO M, FROM ABROAD.

"The desire of the moth for the star

Of the night for the morrow

The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow."

SHELLEY.

METASTASIO.

"L'alma, quel che non ha, sogna e figura."

As, gazing on the Pleiades,

We count each fair and starry one,

Yet wander from the light of these

As, bending o'er fresh-gather'd flowers,

The rose's most enchanting hue

Reminds us but of other hours

Whose roses were all lovely too

So, dearest, when I rove among

The bright ones of this foreign sky,
And mark the smile, and list the song,
And watch the dancers gliding by,

The fairer still they seem to be,
The more it stirs a thought of thee!

The sad, sweet bells of twilight chime
Of many hearts may touch but one,
And so this seeming careless rhyme
Will whisper to thy heart alone.
I give it to the winds! The bird,
Let loose, to his far nest will flee,
And love, though breathed but on a word,
Will find thee over land and sea.

Though clouds across the sky have driven,
We trust at last the star will shine,
And like the very light of heaven

I trust thy love. Trust thou in mine!

SUNRISE THOUGHTS AT THE CLOSE OF A

BALL.

MORN in the East! How coldly fair
It breaks upon my fever'd eye!
How chides the calm and dewy air!
How chides the pure and pearly sky!

The stars melt in a brighter fire

The dew, in sunshine, leaves the flowers-
They, from their watch, in light retire,
While we, in sadness, pass from ours.

I turn from the rebuking morn,

The cold gray sky, and fading star,—

And listen to the harp and horn,

And see the waltzers near and far

The lamps and flowers are bright as yet,
And lips beneath more bright than they,—

How can a scene so fair beget

The mournful thoughts we bear away!

'Tis something that thou art not here,

Sweet lover of my lightest word!

U

'Tis something that my mother's tear By these forgetful hours is stirr'd! But I have long a loiterer been

In haunts where Joy is said to be, And though with Peace I enter in,

The nymph comes never forth with me!

TO A FACE BELOVED.

THE music of the waken'd lyre

Dies not upon the quivering strings,

Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire

Upon the lip that trembling sings;
Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen,

Nor shuts the flowers its fragrant cells,
Nor sleeps the fountain's wealth, I ween,
Forever in its sparry wells-

The spells of the enchanter lie

Not on his own lone heart-his own rapt ear and eye.

I look upon a face as fair

As ever made a lip of heaven

Falter amid its music-prayer!

The first-lit star of summer even

Springs not so softly on the eye;

Nor grows, with watching, half so bright;

Nor, mid its sisters of the sky,

So seems of heaven the dearest light

Men murmur, where that face is seen,

My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien.