DEAR FANNY.

SHE has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool

She has wit, but you mustn't be caught so:”

Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool,

And 'tis not the first time I have thought so,
Dear Fanny,

'Tis not the first time I have thought so.

"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly;
'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season:"
Thus Love has advis'd me, and who will deny
That Love reasons much better than Reason,
Dear Fanny?

Love reasons much better than Reason.

BRIGHT MOON.

BRIGHT moon, that high in heav'n art shining,
All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night

Thy own Endymion lay reclining,

And thou would'st wake him with a kiss of light!

By all the bliss thy beam discovers,

By all those visions far too bright for day,

Which dreaming bards and waking lovers
Behold, this night, beneath thy ling'ring ray,-

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,

Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea,

Till Anthe, in this bow'r, hath given

Beneath thy beam, her long-vow'd kiss to me.

Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,

Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide,

Let Love but in this bow'r be lighted,

Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.

WHEN THOU ART NIGH.

WHEN thou art nigh, it seems

A new creation round;
The sun hath fairer beams,

The lute a softer sound.
Though thee alone I see,

And hear alone thy sigh,

'Tis light, 'tis song to me,
'Tis all-when thou art nigh.

When thou art nigh, no thought
Of grief comes o'er my heart;
I only think-could aught

But joy be where thou art?
Life seems a waste of breath,
When far from thee I sigh;
And death-ay, even death

Were sweet, if thou wert nigh.

THE LEGEND OF PUCK THE FAIRY.

WOULDST know what tricks, by the pale moonlight,
Are play'd by me, the merry little Sprite,
Who wing through air from the camp to the court,
From king to clown, and of all make sport;

Singing, I am the Sprite

Of the merry midnight,

Who laugh at weak mortals, and love the moonlight.

To a miser's bed, where he snoring slept

And dreamt of his cash, I slily crept;

Chink, chink o'er his pillow like money I rang,
And he waked to catch-but away I sprang,
Singing, I am the Sprite, &c.

I saw through the leaves, in a damsel's bower,
She was waiting her love at that starlight hour:
"Hist-hist!" quoth I, with an amorous sigh,
And she flew to the door, but away flew I,
Singing, I am the Sprite, &c.

While a bard sat inditing an ode to his love,
Like a pair of blue meteors I star'd from above,

And he swoon'd-for he thought 'twas the ghost, poor man Of his lady's eyes, while away I ran,

Singing, I am the Sprite, &c.

I LOVE BUT THEE.

IF, after all, you still will doubt and fear me,
And think this heart to other loves will stray,
If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me;
By ev'ry dream I have when thou'rt away,
By ev'ry throb I feel when thou art near me,
I love but thee-I love but thee!

By those dark eyes, where light is ever playing,
Where Love, in depth of shadow, holds his throne,
And by those lips, which give whate'er thou'rt saying,
Or grave or gay, a music of its own,

A music far beyond all minstrel's playing,
I love but thee-I love but thee!

By that fair brow, where Innocence reposes,
As pure as moonlight sleeping upon snow,
And by that cheek, whose fleeting blush discloses
A hue too bright to bless this world below,
And only fit to dwell on Eden's roses,
I love but thee-I love but thee!

STILL WHEN DAYLIGHT.

STILL when daylight o'er the wave
Bright and soft its farewell gave,
I us'd to hear, while light was falling,
O'er the wave a sweet voice calling,
Mournfully at distance calling.

Ah! once how blest that maid would come,
To meet her sea-boy hast'ning home;
And through the night those sounds repeating
Hail his bark with joyous greeting,

Joyously his light bark greeting.

But, one sad night, when winds were high,
Nor earth, nor heaven, could hear her cry,
She saw his boat come tossing over
Midnight's wave,-but not her lover!
No, never more her lover.

And still that sad dream loth to leave,
She comes with wand'ring mind at eve,
And oft we hear, when night is falling,
Faint her voice through twilight calling,

Mournfully at twilight calling.

2

THE HOMEWARD MARCH.

BE still, my heart: I hear them come: Those sounds announce my lover near: The march that brings those warriors home l'roclaims he'll soon be here.

Hark, the distant tread,

O'er the mountain's head,

While hills and dales repeat the sound;
And the forest deer

Stand still to hear,

As those echoing steps ring round.

Be still, my heart, I hear them come,

Those sounds that speak my soldier near; Those joyous steps seem wing'd for home,-Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.

But hark, more faint the footsteps grow,
And now they wind to distant glades;
Not here their home,-alas, they go

To gladden happier maids!

Like sounds in a dream,

The footsteps seem,

As down the hills they die away;
And the march, whose song

So peal'd along,

Now fades like a funeral lay.

'Tis past, 'tis o'er,-hush, heart, thy pain! And though not here, alas, hey come, Rejoice for those, to whom that train Brings sons and lovers home.