Yet think not thus I ever seem,

As though beyond the world's alloy ;For darkness girds our brightest dream, And sorrow tones our sweetest joy!

But may no wintry shade intrude

Upon the springtime of thy lot,

And all that mars my gayest mood

In thy young feeling be forgot:

May Heaven attend thee! wheresoe'er

The bright-wing'd years may waft thee on;

And nothing cloud that blissful air

All eyes have loved to look upon!

Sept. 4th, 1829.

R

THE BALLAD SINGER.

As if the streets were consecrated ground,
The city one vast temple-dedicate
To mutual respect in thought and deed.

WORDSWORTH.

THE dewy spirit of a summer rain

Falls not with fresher magic on the flower,

Than flows sweet music through the soul of man :

The heavens were hung in melody;* the sea

Weaves music when she rolls her full-voiced waves;

* See Note.

The cloud-born thunders sound an organ-peal;

And every breeze hath music in its breath!

What wonder then, while nature hymns around,

That music is a sympathy to souls,

The bloom of exquisite delight?-From lips

Of beauty, like aroma from the mind

Exhaling forth,—or in the hoary aisle
Of dim cathedral dying slow away,-

Or, in some dream-built palace of the night,
Where angel-whispers make the spirit glow,-
How sweet is music!—with the light twin-born.

And thy sad voice, poor minstrel of the street! Hath sweetness in its sorrow; wild thine air, And dim the meaning of that mournful eye;

Oh, yes! cold poverty hath made thee droop,

And nipp'd the health-bloom of thy once fair cheek; Pale-lipp'd thou art, and charity may read