THE brilliant black eye
May in triumph let fly
All its darts without caring who feels 'em;
But the soft eye of blue,
Tho' it scatter wounds too,
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em —
Dear Fanny!
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.

The black eye may say,
" Come and worship my ray —
" By adoring, perhaps you may move me! "
But the blue eye, half hid,
Says from under its lid,
" I love and am yours, if you love me! "
Yes, Fanny!

Nights of music, nights of loving,
Lost too soon, remembered long.
When we went by moonlight roving,
Hearts all love and lips all song.
When this faithful lute recorded
All my spirit felt to thee;
And that smile the song rewarded —
Worth whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor,
Filled with joys too sweet to last —
Joys that, like the star-light, tender,
While they shone no shadow cast.
Tho' all other happy hours
From my fading memory fly,
Of that starlight, of those bowers,

Here , take my heart — 't will be safe in thy keeping,
While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea;
Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,
What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love,
They who have light hearts the happiest be,
Then happier still must be they who have none, love,
And that will be my case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover,

When on the lip the sigh delays,
As if 't would linger there for ever:
When eyes would give the world to gaze,
Yet still look down and venture never;
When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove,
There 's one we dream of more than any —
If all this is not real love,
'T is something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart,
On all we 've got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,

" TELL me, what's Love? " said Youth, one day,
To drooping Age, who crost his way. —
" It is a sunny hour of play,
" For which repentance dear doth pay;
" Repentance! Repentance!
" And this is Love, as wise men say. "

" Tell me, what 's Love? " said Youth once more,
Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore. —
" Soft as a passing summer's wind,
" Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind?
" Repentance! Repentance!
" And this is Love — when love is o'er. "

" Tell me, what 's Love? " said Youth again,

Being in Love.

Aske Lover, ere thou dyest; let one poor breath
Steale from thy lips, to tell her of thy Death;
Doating Idolater! can silence bring
Thy Saint propitious? or will Cupid fling
One arrow for thy palenes? leave to trye
This silent Courtship of a sickly eye;
Witty to tyranny: She too well knowes
This but the incense of thy private vowes,
That breaks forth at thine eyes, and doth betray
The sacrifice thy wounded heart would pay;
Aske her, foole, aske her, if words cannot move,
The language of thy teares may make her love:

In the morning of Life, when our feelings are new,
And our pathway is pleasant with sunshine and dew;
When many-toned music pervadeth the air,
And the commonest thing that we look on is fair, —
How sweet the first passion, that prompts us to stray
With one who adds beauty to beautiful May!
While a voice seems to steal through the shade of the bowers,
Singing — " Love is the odour of heavenly flowers! "

When wedded, and home groweth bright with the bride,
An angel to walk through the world by our side, —

Well , if that's our fate,
I would rather go down with those I love
Than float among those I hate.

(A IR . — H AYDN .)

O H , teach me to love Thee, to feel what thou art,
Till, filled with the one sacred image, my heart
Shall all other passions disown;
Like some pure temple that shines apart,
Reserved for Thy worship alone.

In joy and in sorrow, thro' praise and thro' blame,
Thus still let me, living and dying the same,
In Thy service bloom and decay —
Like some lone altar whose votive flame
In holiness wasteth away.

CHORUS OF PRIESTS .

(A IR . — M OZART .)

Almighty G OD ! when round thy shrine
The Palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine,
(Emblem of Life's eternal ray,
And Love that " fadeth not away, " )
We bless the flowers, expanded all,
We bless the leaves that never fall,
And trembling say, — " In Eden thus
The Tree of Life may flower for us! "
When round thy Cherubs — smiling calm,
Without their flames — we wreathe the Palm,
Oh, G OD ! we feel the emblem true —
Thy Mercy is eternal too,