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I LOVE thee-I love thee !
"Tis all that I can say ;-
It is my vision in the night,

My dreaming in the day;
The very echo of my heart,
The blessing when I pray :

I love thee-I love thee!
Is all that I can say.

I love thee-I love thee!
Is ever on my tongue;
In all my proudest poesy,

That chorus still is sung;
It is the verdict of my eyes,
Amidst the gay and young:

I love thee-I love thee!

A thousand maids among.

I love thee-I love thee!

Thy bright and hazel glance, The mellow lute upon those lips,

Whose tender tones entrance;

But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs That still these words enhance,

I love thee-I love thee!

Whatever be thy chance.

SERENADE.

Ан, sweet, thou little knowest how
I wake and passionate watches keep;
And yet while I address thee now,

Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 'Tis sweet enough to make me weep,

That tender thought of love and thee, That while the world is hush'd so deep, Thy soul's perhaps awake to me!

Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep! With golden visions for thy dower, While I this midnight vigil keep,

And bless thee in thy silent bower; To me 'tis sweeter than the power Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurl'd, That I alone, at this still hour,

In patient love outwatch the world.

VERSES IN AN ALBUM.

FAR above the hollow
Tempest, and its moan,
Singeth bright Apollo
In his golden zone,-
Cloud doth never shade him,

Nor a storm invade him,

On his joyous throne.

So when I behold me
In an orb as bright,
How thy soul doth fold me
In its throne of light!
Sorrow never paineth,
Nor a care attaineth,
To that blessed height.

BALLAD.

It was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses,-
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!

That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet!

-the world was newly crown'd

Oh, no

With flowers when first we met.

"Twas twilight, and I bade you go,

But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses,-

We pluck'd them as we pass'd!

THE ROMANCE OF COLOGNE.

'Tis even on the pleasant banks of Rhine
The thrush is singing and the dove is cooing;
A Youth and Maiden on the turf recline
Alone and he is wooing.

Yet woos in vain, for to the voice of love
No kindly sympathy the Maid discovers,
Though round them both, and in the air above,
The tender spirit hovers.

Untouch'd by lovely Nature and her laws,
The more he pleads, more coyly she represses;
Her lips denies, and now her hand withdraws,
Rejecting his addresses.

Fair is she as the dreams young poets weave,
Bright eyes and dainty lips and tresses curly,
In outward loveliness a child of Eve,

But cold as nymph of Lurley.

The more Love tries her pity to engross,

The more she chills him with a strange behavior;
Now tells her beads, now gazes on the Cross
And image of the Saviour.