Oh! there's nothing left us now, But to mourn the past; Vain was every ardent vowNever yet did Heaven allow Love so warm, so wild, to last. Not even hope could now deceive meLife itself looks dark and cold: Oh! thou never more canst give me One dear smile like those of old. THE DAY OF LOVE. THE beam of morning trembling Stole o'er the mountain brook, With timid ray resembling Affection's early look. Thus love begins-sweet morn of love! The noontide ray ascended, And o'er the valley stream As passion's riper dream. But evening came, o'ershading From Passion's altered eye. Thus love declines-cold eve of love! THE SONG OF WAR. THE song of war shall echo through our mountains, Till not one hateful link remains Of slavery's lingering chainsTill not one tyrant tread our plains, Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains. No! never till that glorious day Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, Or hear, oh Peace! thy welcome lay Resounding through her sunny mountains. The song of war shall echo through our mountains, Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say, 'Your cloud of foes hath passed away, And Freedom comes with new-born The snow on Jura's steep Can smile with many a beam, Yet still in chains of coldness sleep, How bright soe'er it seem. But when some deep-felt ray, Whose touch is fire, appears, Oh! then the smile is warmed away, And, melting, turns to tears. 'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow; And Joy, if left on the stem to-day, May wither before to-morrow. Then why, dearest! so long Let the sweet moments fly over? Though now, blooming and young, Thou hast me devoutly thy lover. Yet time from both, in his silent lapse, Some treasure may steal or borrow; Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, Or I less in love to-morrow. WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH WHEN on the lip the sigh delays, As if 'twould linger there for ever; When eyes would give the world to gaze, Yet still look down, and venture never; When, though with fairest nymphs we There let it lie, growing fonder and rove, There's one we dream of more than any If all this is not real love, fonder And should Dame Fortune turn truant to me, "Tis something wondrous like it, Why,-let her go—I've a treasure be Fanny! To think and ponder, when apart, And yet when near, with heart to heart, yond her, As long as my heart's out at interest with thee ! NAME. Sit mute, and listen to their beating: OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER To see but one bright object move, The only moon, where stars are manyIf all this is not downright love, I prithee say what is, my Fanny ! When Hope foretells the brightest, best, When Passion drives us to the west, beckons ; When all turns round, below, above, OH! call it by some better name, For Friendship is too cold, Whose shrine must be of gold; Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay, |