And still I staid a little more,
Alas! she never comes again!
I throw my flowers from the shore,
And watch in vain.
I know my life will fade away,
I know that I must vainly pine,
For I am made of mortal clay,
But she's divine!
THE Swallow with summer
Will wing o'er the seas,
The wind that I sigh to
Will visit thy trees,
The ship that it hastens
Thy ports will contain,
But me-I must never
See England again!
There's many that weep there,
But one weeps alone,
For the tears that are falling
So far from her own;
So far from thy own, love,
We know not our pain;
If death is between us,
Or only the main.
When the white cloud reclines
I fancy the white cliffs,
And dream upon thee;
But the cloud spreads its wings
To the blue heav'n and flies.
We never shall meet, love,
Except in the skies!
O'ER hill, and dale, and distant sea,
Through all the miles that stretch between,
My thought must fly to rest on thee,
And would, though worlds should intervene.
Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks
The farther we are forced apart,
Affection's firm elastic links
But bind the closer round the heart.
For now we sever each from each,
I learn what I have lost in thee;
Alas, that nothing less could teach,
How great indeed my love should be!
Farewell! I did not know thy worth,
But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized:
So angels walk'd unknown on earth,
But when they flew were recognised!
THE stars are with the voyager
Wherever he may sail;
The moon is constant to her time;
The sun will never fail ;
But follow, follow round the world,
The green earth and the sea;
So love is with the lover's heart,
Wherever he may be, the stars
Must daily lose their light;
The moon will veil her in the shade;
The sun will set at night.
The sun may set, but constant love
Will shine when he's away;
So that dull night is never night,
And day is brighter day.
MOTHER of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led !— ·
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,
Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow,
Where hunter never climb'd,-secure from dread?
How many antique fancies have I read
Of that mild presence! and how many wrought !
Wondrous and bright,
Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought!
What art thou like ?-Sometimes I see thee ride A far-bound galley on its perilous way,
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray ;Sometimes behold thee glide,
Cluster'd by all thy family of stars,
Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide,
Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars;
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