The world has just begun to steal
Each hope that led me lightly on;
I felt not as I used to feel,
And life grew dark and love was gone.

No eye to mingle sorrow's tear,
No lip to mingle pleasure's breath,
No circling arms to draw me near —
'T was gloomy, and I wished for death.

But when I saw that gentle eye,
Oh! something seemed to tell me then,
That I was yet too young to die,
And hope and bliss might bloom again.

With every gentle smile that crost
Your kindling cheek, you lighted home

I DREAMT that, in the Paphian groves,
My nets by moonlight laying,
I caught a flight of wanton Loves,
Among the rose-beds playing.
Some just had left their silvery shell,
While some were full in feather;
So pretty a lot of Loves to sell,
Were never yet strung together.
Come buy my Loves,
Come buy my Loves,
Ye dames and rose-lipped misses! —

WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS, ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY

When , casting many a look behind,
 I leave the friends I cherish here—
Perchance some other friends to find,
But surely finding none so dear—
Haply the little simple page,
 Which votive thus I've traced for thee,
May now and then a look engage,
 And steal one moment's thought for me.

But, oh! in pity let not those
 Whose hearts are not of gentle mould,
Let not the eye that seldom flows
 With feeling's tear, my song behold.

For, trust me, they who never melt

Love has turned his face away,
Weep, sad eyes!
Love is now of yesterday
Time that flies,
Bringing glad and grievous things,
Bears no more Love's shining wings.

Love was not all glad, you say;
Tears and sighs
In the midst of kisses lay
Were it wise,
If we could, to bid him come,
Making with us once more home?

Little doubts that sting and prey,
Hurt replies,
Words for which a life should pay, —
None denies
These of Love were very part, —
Thorns that hurt the rose's heart.

Ah , happy youths! ah, happy maid!
Take present pleasure while ye may;
Laugh, dance, and sing in sunny glade;
Your limbs are light, your hearts are gay;
Ye little think there comes a day
('Twill come to you, it came to me,)
When love and life shall pass away, —
I too once dwelt in Arcady!

Or listless lie by yonder stream,
And muse and watch the ripples play;
Or note their noiseless flow and deem
That life thus gently glides away,
That love is but a sunny ray
To make our years go joyously;

Op HoeBUS ! down the western sky
Far hence diffuse thy burning ray,
Thy light to distant worlds supply,
And wake them to the cares of day.
Come, gentle eve, the friend of care,
Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night!
Refresh me with a cooling air,
And cheer me with a lambent light.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

My Love she is a lowly but sweet flower,
And I would wear her in my breast, for she
Is full of fragrance, and such modesty
That I ev'n sanctify that precious hour,
When first my eyes her worshippers became.
He, who hath mark'd the opening rose in spring,
Hath seen but portion small of her I sing.
For Fortune if I struggle, or for Fame,
'Tis that, unworthy, I may worthy be
Of her, the maiden with the dark black hair,
And darker eyes. My only wish to share
The sunless sums low sunk beneath the sea,

The tears I shed must ever fall,
I mourn not for an absent swain;
For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead,
Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er;
And those they loved their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.

Though boundless oceans roll'd between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand remov'd,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,

The bugling of the summer wind
Is sweet upon the hill:
I love to hear its eddies
The heather-crannies fill.

It plays upon the bracken
A blithe fanfarronade:
And thro' the moss-cups whistleth
" The Fairy Raid. "

It leaps from birch to rowan,
And laugheth long and loud,
Then with a spring is vanished,
And rideth on a cloud!

Low laughing, blithely scorning —
Beware, beware, of flaming wings,
Love hunts thee down the morning!

His white feet dip i' the hillside springs,
He mocks thy flying terror!
The woodland with his laughter rings!

He'll make thee his slave to follow,
Nor shall he forgive thee, maid, thine error,
Who spied thee hid in the hollow.

Too late, too late the warning!
Behold the flash of flaming wings —
Love hath thee now i' the morning!