I have seen the wild-flowers springing Since thy beauty's spell has bound me, SHE IS NOT FAIR? HARTLEY COLERIDGE. She is not fair to outward view, Until she smiled on me: Oh, then I saw her eye was bright- But now her looks are coy and cold, Than smiles of other maidens are ! [This is a very pretty song, and worthy of the name of Coleridge.] SYLVIA TO ROMANZO. GEORGE DARLEY. The streams that wind amid the hills, The leaf forsakes the parent spray, So may it love! with others be But-I will never wend from thee. SYLVIA TO ROMANZO. GEORGE DARLEY. I've pluck'd the woodbine, and lilac so pale, O look how the rose blushes deeper with pride, My beautiful myrtle!-I think thou dost know For thou seems't with a voice full of fragrance to sigh— "Should I wreath that young shepherd how happy were I!" Come, bend me thy brow, gentle youth! and I'll twine Round thy temples so pure this rich garland of mine; O thou look'st such a prince! from this day, from this hour, I will call thee nought else but the Lord of my Bower. THE QUEEN OF THE MAY. GEORGE DARLEY. Here's a bank with rich cowslips and cuckoo-buds strewn, To exalt your bright looks, gentle Queen of the May! Here's a cushion of moss for your delicate shoon, And a woodbine to weave you a canopy gay! Here's a garland of red-maiden-roses for you, Here are bracelets of pearl from the fount in the dale, That the nymph of the wave on your wrists doth bestow; Here's a lily-wrought scarf, your sweet blushes to veil, Or to lie on that bosom like snow upon snow. Here's a myrtle enwreath'd with a jessamine band, To express the fond twining of beauty and youth; Take this emblem of love in thy exquisite hand, And do thou sway the evergreen sceptre of Truth ! Then around you we'll dance, and around you we'll sing! To soft pipe, and sweet tabor we'll foot it away! And the hills, and the vales, and the forests shall ring While we hail you our lovely young Queen of the May. THE CALL. GEORGE DARLEY. Awake thee, my lady-love! Wake thee and rise! The sun through the bower peeps Behold how the early lark Springs from the corn! Hark, hark how the flower-bird Winds her wee horn! The swallow's glad shriek is heard All through the air! The stock-dove is murmuring Loud as she dare! Apollo's wing'd bugleman But peals his loud trumpet-call Once and again! Then wake thee, my lady-love! Bird at this hour. SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. MRS. HEMANS. Where is the sea?—I languish here— Where is my own blue sea? I miss the voice of waves-the first The measur'd chime, the thundering burst― Oh! with your myrtles breath may rise, Soft, soft, your winds may be ; Yet my sick heart within me dies Where is my own blue sea? |