With thy twin buds of beauty by thy side
Together blossoming; I almost deem

That I behold the loveliness and truth,
That like fair visions hovered round my youth,
Long sought-and then forgotten as a dream

A SPIRIT'S VOICE.

It is the dawn! the rosy day awakes;

From her bright hair pale showers of dew she

shakes,

And through the heavens her early pathway takes; Why art thou sleeping!

It is the noon! the sun looks laughing down
On hamlet still, on busy shore, and town,
On forest glade, and deep dark waters lone;
Why art thou sleeping!

It is the sunset! daylight's crimson veil
Floats o'er the mountain tops, while twilight pale,
Calls up her vaporous shrouds from every vale;
Why art thou sleeping!

It is the night! o'er the moon's livid brow,

Like shadowy locks, the clouds their darkness throw, All evil spirits wake to wander now;

Why art thou sleeping!

TO THE DEAD.

On the lone waters' shore

Wander I yet;

Brooding those moments o'er
I should forget.

"Till the broad foaming surge
Warns me to fly,

While despair's whispers urge To stay, and die.

When the night's solemn watch

Falls on the seas, 'Tis thy voice that I catch

In the low breeze;

When the moon sheds her light

On things below,
Beams not her ray so bright,

Like thy young brow?
Spirit immortal! say,

When wilt thou come, To marshal me the way To my long home?

SONG.

I SING the yellow leaf,
That rustling strews

The wintry path, where grief

Delights to muse,

Spring's early violet, that sweetly opes

Its fragrant leaves to the young mornings kiss, Type of our youth's fond dreams, and cherished

hope,

Will soon be this:

A sere and yellow leaf,

That rustling strews

The wintry path, where grief

Delights to muse.

The summer's rose, in whose rich hues we read Pleasures gay bloom, and love's enchanting bliss, And glory's laurel, waving o'er the dead,

Will soon be this:

A sere and yellow leaf,

That rustling strews

The wintry path, where grief
Delights to muse.

TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

HERE'S a health to thee, Bard of Erin! To the goblet's brim we will fill; For all that to life is endearing,

Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever fond woman's eyes eclipse
The midnight moon's soft ray;
Whenever around dear woman's lips,
The smiles of affection play:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet's brim we will fill,

For all that to life is endearing,

Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever the warrior's sword is bound With the laurel of victory,

Wherever the patriot's brow is crowned With the halo of liberty: