And all unmixed with ruder tone,

Their “wood-notes wild” be heard alone!

Far from the frown of stern control,

That vainly would subdue the soul,
There shall their long-affianced hands,
Be joined in consecrated bands,

And in some rich, romantic vale,

Circled with heights of Alpine snow,

Where citron-woods enrich the gale,

And scented shrubs their balm exhale,

And flowering myrtles blow;

And 'midst the mulberry boughs on high, Weaves the wild vine her tapestry :

On some bright streamlet's emerald side, Where cedars wave, in graceful pride, Bosomed in groves, their home shall rise, A sheltered bower of Paradise!

Thus would the lover soothe to rest

With tales of hope, her anxious breast;

Nor vain that dear, enchanting lore,
Her soul's bright visions to restore,
And bid gay phantoms of delight,

Float, in soft colouring, o'er her sight.

-Oh! youth, sweet May-morn, fled so soon, Far brighter than life's loveliest noon,

How oft thy spirit's buoyant power,

Will triumph, e'en in sorrow's hour,

Prevailing o'er regret !

As rears its head th' elastic flower,

Though the dark tempest's recent shower,

Hang on its petals yet!

Ah! not so soon can hope's gay smile,

The aged bard to joy beguile;

Those silent years that steal away,

The cheek's warm rose, the eye's bright ray,

Win from the mind a nobler prize,

E'en all its buoyant energies !

For him the April days are past,

When grief was but a fleeting cloud;

No transient shade will sorrow cast,

When age the spirit's might has bowed!
And as he sees the land grow dim,

That native land, now lost to him,

Fixed are his eyes, and clasped his hands,

And long in speechless grief he stands.
So desolately calm his air,

He seems an image, wrought to bear

The stamp of deep, though hushed despair;

Motion and life no sign bespeaks

Save that the night-breeze, o'er his cheeks,

Just waves his silvery hair!

Nought else could teach the eye to know He was no sculptured form of woe!

Long gazing o'er the darkening flood,
Pale in that silent grief he stood;
Till the cold moon was waning fast,

And many a lovely star had died,

And the

gray heavens deep shadows cast

Far o'er the slumbering tide;

And robed in one dark solemn hue,
Arose the distant shore to view.

Then, starting from his trance of woe,

Tears, long-suppressed, in freedom flow,
While thus his wild and plaintive strain,
Blends with the murmur of the main.

THE BARD'S FAREWELL.

Thou setting moon! when next thy rays,
Are trembling on the shadowy deep,
The land, now fading from my gaze
These eyes in vain shall weep;

And wander o'er the lonely sea,

And fix their tearful glance on thee,

On thee! whose light so softly gleams,

Thro' the green oaks that fringe my native streams.

But 'midst those ancient groves no more

Shall I thy quivering lustre hail,

Its plaintive strain my harp must pour,

To swell a foreign gale;

The rocks, the woods, whose echoes woke,

When its full tones their stillness broke,

Deserted now, shall hear alone,

The brook's wild voice, the wind's mysterious moan.

And oh! ye fair, forsaken halls,

Left by your lord to slow decay,

Soon shall the trophies on your walls
Be mouldering fast away!

There shall no choral songs resound,

There shall no festal board be crowned;

But ivy wreath the silent gate,

And all be hushed, and cold, and desolate.

No banner from the stately tower,

Shall spread its blazoned folds on high,
There the wild briar and summer-flower,

Unmarked shall wave and die!