In vain the sunbeams seek

To warm that faded cheek;

The dews of heav'n, that once like balm fell over thee,

Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou; In vain the smiles of all

Like sunbeams round her fall;

The only smile that could from death awaken her, That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

Let the flow'r-beds all lie waking, And the odors shut up there, From their downy prisons breaking, Fly abroad through sea and air.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

BEING weary of love,

I flew to the grove,

And chose me a tree of the fairest ; Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree, "Thou my mistress shalt be, "And I'll worship each bud thou bearest. "For the hearts of this world are hollow, "And fickle the smiles we follow ;

"And 'tis sweet, when all

"Their witch'ries pall,

"To have a pure love to fly to:

"So, my pretty Rose-tree,

"Thou my mistress shalt be, "And the only one now I shall sigh to."

When the beautiful hue

Of thy cheek through the dew Of morning is bashfully peeping,

"Sweet tears," I shall say, (As I brush them away,) "At least there's no art in this weeping." Although thou shouldst die to-morrow, "Twill not be from pain or sorrow; And the thorns of thy stem Are not like them

With which men wound each other:
So, my pretty Rose-tree,
Thou my mistress shalt be,
And I'll ne'er again sigh to another

SHINE OUT, STARS!

SHINE out, Stars! let Heav'n assemble
Round us ev'ry festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
All to grace this Eve of May.

OH, the joys of our ev'ning posada, Where, resting at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

Sit and sing the sunshine away; So merry, that even the slumbers,

That round us hung, seem gone; Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers Again beguile them on.

Oh, the joys, &c. .

Then as each to his loved sultana
In sleep still breathes the sigh,
The name of some black-eyed Tirana
Escapes our lips as we lie.

Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,
and gone-
Again we're up
While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle
Beguiles the rough way on.
Oh, the joys of our merry posada,
Where, resting at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
Thus sing the gay moments away.

TELL HER, OH, TELL HER. TELL her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying Beneath the green arbor, is still lying there; And breezes, like lovers, around it are sighing, But not a soft whisper replies to their pray'r

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going,
Beside the green arbor she playfully set,
As lovely as ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a bright leaflet has fall'n from it yet.