Day and night my thoughts shall hover
Round thy steps where'er they stray;
As, ev'n when clouds his idol cover,
Fondly the Persian tracks its ray.
If this be wrong, if Heav'n offended
By worship to its creature be,
Then let my vows to both be blended,
Half breath'd to Heav'n and half to thee.
'WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.
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 rove,
There's one we dream of more than any-
If all this is not real love,
'Tis something wond'rous like it, Fanny!
To think and ponder, when apart,
On all we've got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,
Sit mute, and listen to their beating;
To see but one bright object move,
The only moon, where stars are many—
If all this is not downright love,
I prithee say what is, my Fanny !
When Hope foretells the brightest, best,
Though Reason on the darkest reckons;
When Passion drives us to the west,
Though Prudence to the eastward beckons;
When all turns round, below, above,
Lovers, lull'd in sunny bow'rs,
Sleeping out their dream of time,
Know not half the bliss that's ours,
In this snowy, icy clime.
Like yon star that livelier gleams
From the frosty heavens around,
Love himself the keener beams
When with snows of coyness crown'd.
Fleet then on, my merry steed,
Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale.
What can match a lover's speed?
See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale !
Brightly hath the northern star
Lit us from yon radiant skies;
But, behold, how brighter far
Yonder shine my lady's eyes!
THOUGII lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,
Though like the lark's its soaring music be,
Thou'lt find ev'n here some mournful note that tells
How near such April joy to weeping dwells.
'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oft'nest steal
Those sadd'ning thoughts we fear, yet love to feel
And music never half so sweet appears,
As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.
Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay-
It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,
Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath
Most warms the surface, feel most sad beneath.
The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears
Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,-
And passion's pow'r can never lend the glow
Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.
STILL thou fliest, and still I woo thee,
Lovely phantom,-all in vain ;
Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,
Fleeting ever, thou mock'st their pain.
Such doom, of old, that youth betided,
Who woo'd, he thought, some angel's charms,
But found a cloud that from him glided,-
As thou dost from these out-stretch'd arms.
Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest,"
Ere thy light hath vanish'd by;
And 'tis when thou look'st divinest
Thou art still more sure to fly.
Ev'n as the lightning, that, dividing
The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me,"
Then flits again, its splendour hiding,-
Ev'n such the glimpse I catch of thee.
LET JOY ALONE BE REMEMBER'D NOW.
LET thy joys alone be remember'd now,
Let thy sorrows go sleep awhile;
Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow,
Let Love light it up with his smile..
For thus to meet, and thus to find
That Time, whose touch can chill
Each flower of form, each grace of mind,
Hath left thee blooming still,—
Oh, joy alone should be thought of now,
Let our sorrows go sleep awhile;
Or, should thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow,
Let Love light it up with his smile.
When the flowers of life's sweet garden fade,
If but one bright leaf remain,
Of the many that once its glory made,
It is not for us to complain.
But thus to meet and thus to wake
In all Love's early bliss;
Oh, Time all other gifts may take,
So he but leaves us this!
Then let joy alone be remember'd now,
Let our sorrows go sleep awhile;
Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow,
Let Love light it up with his smile!
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,
Again we are up and gone-
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.
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