SET TO MUSIC BY MR. VOIGHT.

What do I love? A polish'd mind,
A temper cheerful, meek, and kind;
A graceful air, unsway'd by art,
A voice that sinks into the heart,
A playful and benignant smile —
Alas! my heart responds the while,
All this, my Emily, is true,
But I love more in loving you!

I love those roses when they rise,
From joy, from anger, or surprise;
I love the kind, attentive zeal,
So prompt to know what others feel,

I SAMUEL, XV .

" Surely the bitterness of death is past, "
Cried he whose safety Saul the sovereign willed
When all the blood of Amalek else was spilled
And at his nation's grave he stood, the last.
But Samuel came with countenance overcast,
With wrath aroused and charity all chilled,
And there before the Lord was Agag killed,
Hewed into pieces by the Enthusiast.
Prophet of Love! whose covenant hath reversed

Death has ordained thee out of all my dreams
And dealt me bitter check to my pursuit;
My sunlight fails while tears are absolute,
And night falls ever chill, with scanty gleams
From clouded stars that mock the dull moon's beams.
My summer land, long fair with flowers and fruit,
Far cumbered lies with rotted branch and root,
In dismal fields by hopeless stagnant streams.
Death has redeemed thee out of toilsome days
And bound thy harvest in a single sheaf,
While I went forward over saddened ways
Whose barren progress brings but slow relief;

Once Reason, calm, majestic maid,
Thro' bosky gloom of garden strayed —
A garden planned in every part
To please the mind yet scarce the heart.
'Tis true the level walks, the bowers,
Were gemmed with all the fairest flowers
That royal Nature's bounteous hand
Had flung upon that radiant land,
Where Summer kisses Summer's lips,
And all the year the brown bee sips
His nectar from the chain of flowers
That stretches o'er those sunny hours,
And finds no missing link of bloom
To cloud his busy life with gloom.

There beat a heart whose life was grown
A thing by Grief made all its own;
Which felt Affliction's heavy power,
Each minute of each weary hour,
And counted every day that pass'd,
By being bitt'rer than the last.
Then came full many a lovely thing,
A comfort to his woe to bring,
And tried by smile, and play, and jest,
To melt the icebands from his breast
Mirth, with her eye half hid below
The archly-drooping lid of snow,
Danc'd near with feet as quick and bright
As glances from the wave the light,
And call'd him from his trance away,

Said Love to Hate, " I shall destroy you yet;
Around my throne your servitors shall stand
To gaze on me, till they your name forget,
And you, yourself, shall bid my foes disband. "

Said Love to Hate, " I shall destroy you yet;
Around my throne your servitors shall stand
To gaze on me, till they your name forget,
And you, yourself, shall bid my foes disband. "

I.

Fairest of flowers by fountain or lake.
Listen, my fawn-eyed one, wake, oh awake!
Pride of the prairies, one look from thy bower
Will gladden my spirits like dew-drops the flower.

II.

Thy glances to music my soul can attune,
As sweet as the murmur of young leaves in June;
Then breathe but a whisper from lips that disclose
A balm like the morning or autumn's last rose.

III.

My pulse leaps toward thee like fountains when first
Through their ice chains in April toward Heaven they burst;

I cannot tell, of twain beneath this bond,
Which one in grief the other goes beyond, —
Narcissus, who to end the pain he bore
Died of the love that could not help him more;
Or I, that pine because I cannot see
The lady who is queen and love to me.

Nay — for Narcissus, in the forest pond
Seeing his image, made entreaty fond,
" Beloved, comfort on my longing pour " :
So for a while he soothed his passion sore;
So cannot I, for all too far is she —
The lady who is queen and love to me.

1. Mender

Are there any
as tender
as the day
with the night
in its arms
or the night
with the day?
If there is
will you send her?

2. Her Eyes

Her eyes hold black whips —
dart of a whip
lashing, nay, flicking,
nay, merely caressing

I.

'T WAS wrongly done, to let her know the feeling
Which mask'd so long within my heart lay hid,
Yet now I wonder at so well concealing
My soul's full tenderness, as long I did; —
'Twas wrongly done — and yet, howe'er it move
Her fervid nature thus to love in vain,
'Twere better vainly even thus to love
Than not to know she was beloved again!

Those hours of passion now for ever pass'd,