For me not rooted in this earthly bower, go, without an effort, like the flower,

I

Borne lightly on the gentle evening gale.

In the vain hope of glory's brilliant dream,
Man throws, in passing to the rapid stream,

A name that each day weakens in its flow. With the bright wreck, Time's dashing billows play;

From age to age it floats—and then its ray
Is quench'd in dark Oblivion's depths below.

I cast another name upon the wave:
As the wind wills, it floats, or finds a grave,

And shall I then myself more noble deem? The swan, who to the vaults eternal flies, Friends does he ask if still the shadow lies,

Thrown by his wings upon the turf of green?

Then wherefore sing'st thou? Ask the nightingale, Why, through the night, her soft tones never fail

To mingle with the brook's low minstrelsy? I sing, my friends, as man his breath inhales, As coos the dove, as sigh the autumn gales, As the stream murmurs on in melody.

THE DYING POET.

'Tis all my life-to love, and pray, and sing, Of all the joys that o'er existence fling

Their charm, at parting, I regret alone The ardent sigh that softly mounts above, The lyre's ecstasy, the silent love

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Of a fond heart, when press'd against mine

own.

At beauty's feet, to feel the lyre's deep thrill, From chord to chord, to see the harmonious rill

Steal in the breast, that plighted love endears, Causing the tears from hidden founts to flow, As from a chalice filled, the winds that blow Gem all the ground with bright Aurora's tears.

To see the modest virgin's plaintive glance,
Turning in sadness to the blue expanse,

As if to fly with sounds that take their flight; Then falling on you, fill'd with light divine, Under those drooping lids her deep eyes shine,

Like the bright fire that trembles in the night.

To see the shade of thought pass o'er her brow, And while denied free utterance-soft and low, To hear the word break on the silent hour

I love the word which echoes from high heaven, This word the word, to gods and men both

given,

Which to call forth a sigh alone hath power.

How profitless the word! regret! a sigh!
My soul is on the wing of death borne high
To where their instinct my desires bear;
I go where Hope her flood of radiance pours,
Where goes the sound that from my lute now

soars,

Where go the sighs that I have breath'd in air.

As the bird sees amid the shades of death, So Faith, the soul's clear eye, while ebbs my breath,

With glance prophetic, shows me things to

come;

How oft amid the fields of bliss, my soul

Hath soared above the mists and shades that roll About the death, thus cloth'd in shadowy

gloom.

Break, cast unto the winds, the flame, the wave, The lute which never but one answer gave:

I go to touch the lyre of seraphim.

THE DYING POET.

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Like them, immortal, I with joy may guide, With my lyre's tones, suspended heavens that glide

Unto the music of my lofty hymn.

Soon-but Death's icy hand hath touch'd the string

'Tis broken-as it breaks, the chord doth fling A deeply plaintive sound on empty space; My lute is silent.-Friends, take up your lyre; Let my soul pass from this world to a higher, Amid the sacred concerts of your praise!

The Song of the Wave.

I am free! I am free! I have slumber'd long In the winter's icy chain;

But the hills and the shores shall resound to my

song

As I glide to the billowy main.

I lay like a giant wrapp'd in sleep,
Till arous'd by the Spring's soft call;
But I rise in the might of the swelling deep,
And I burst my frozen thrall.

Onward I dash with arrowy spring,

And I bound in frolicsome glee;
For mine is the joy of an untamed thing-
The imprison'd wave is free!

O mine are the sparkles of sunny gold!
And mine the foamy crest!

And the changing skies their hues unfold
On my proudly heaving breast!

O mine are the showers of pearly spray,
Which I fling on the pebbly strand!