If I have bid a spot farewell, on whose familiar ground, To every path, and leaf, and flower, my soul in love was bound;

If I have watched the parting step of one who came not back,

The feeling of that moment wakes in your exulting track.

Yet on ye float !-the very air seems kindling with your glee !

Oh! do ye fling this mournful spell, sweet sounds ! alone on me?

Or, have a thousand hearts replied, as mine doth now, in sighs,

To the glad music breathing thus of blue Italian skies?

I know not!-only this I know, that not by me on earth,

May the deep joy of song be found, untroubled in its

birth;

It must be for a brighter life, for some immortal sphere,

Wherein its flow shall have no taste of the bitter fountains here.

A HEALTH.

BY EDWARD C. PINKNEY.

I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,"
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have

given

A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning

birds,

And something more than melody dwells ever in her

words;

The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows

As one may see the burthened bee forth issue from the

rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours;

Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of young flowers;

And lonely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she

appears

The image of themselves by turns the idol of past

years.

Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain ;

But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon-
Her health! and would on earth there stood some
more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

THE SERENADE.

SOFTLY the moonlight
Is shed on the lake,
Cool is the summer night—
Wake! O awake!
Faintly the curfew

Is heard from afar,

List ye! O list!

To the lively guitar.

Trees cast a mellow shade

Over the vale, Sweetly the serenade Breathes in the gale,

Softly and tenderly

Over the lake, Gaily and cheerily— Wake! O awake!

See the light pinnace

Draws nigh to the shore, Swiftly it glides

At the heave of the oar, Cheerily plays

On its buoyant car, Nearer and nearer The lively guitar.

Now the wind rises

And ruffles the pine, Ripples foam-crested Like diamonds shine,

24

THE SERENADE.

They flash, where the waters
The white pebbles lave,
In the wake of the moon,
As it crosses the wave.

Bounding from billow
To billow, the boat
Like a wild swan is seen,
On the waters to float;
And the light dipping oars
Bear it smoothly along
In time to the air

Of the Gondolier's song.

And high on the stern

Stands the young and the brave,

As love-led he crosses

The star-spangled wave,
And blends with the murmur

Of water and grove

The tones of the night,

That are sacred to love.

His gold-hilted sword

At his bright belt is hung,
His mantle of silk

On his shoulder is flung,
And high waves the feather,
That dances and plays
On his cap, where the buckle
And rosary blaze.

The maid from her lattice
Looks down on the lake,
To see the foam sparkle,
The bright billow break,