Age has been call'd " a Vale of Years ; "
Life , at the best, a Vale of Tears ;
Love , as December nights advance,
At least has parted with romance;
But St. L — — — t a charm has found
That Spring has to the Winter bound:
Upon his furrow'd cheek a tear
No more has clos'd the passing year.
For this, her gift — a Fairy's boon —
Is my commission from the Moon;
Prophetic is the potent spell —
I am its Wizard, and foretell :
The Regent , by an Act of State,
Shall E****d's trophies reinstate;

TO THE INKSTAND OF THE ANGEL-MOTHER, REPRESENTED BY TWO LOVED SISTERS TO ME .

 D EAR implement of art—combin'd
With spirit of a gifted mind,
When she, whose hand is now at rest,
Thee to its glowing service prest!
I cherish thee—and bless the pen,
Which calls thee into life again.
 Oh! could I emulate her thought!
Could the rich mine's pure vein be caught!
Her Genius only I'd implore,
And court the polish'd Muse no more.
To Nature's fountain ever trust,
And lay the Pedant in the dust.—
 But of all heir-looms , yet enshrin'd

Venus , d'ye say? For beauty not unlike.
But where's, my friend! the wish-inspiring glance?
The ambiguous aspect, lure and rack of love?
Pale, flushing languish? Or the scornful frown,
Ending repentant in a luscious smile?

No. Virtue inspiriting that noble form
Than Venus ever boasted more divine
Sure has on earth descended to reveal
Herself. How lovely! Made thus visible!
That shape how just! In that complection, fair
As innocence unspotted, sweetly glow
The mingled delicacies. In her eye
Sparkles her soul. Her features and her mien

You see this rose,
Its calyx, its petals?
Since fair it shows
Could you forget, all's
Well with your heart to the heart's confusion
And the mind's disjointure. What's conclusion?
Look on her blossom, half white, half pinky.
Would you choose her, the choice yours, think ye?

Or if, depressed

The drowsy glade, all mellowed by the moon,
Lavished its fragrance through the midnight air;
The breeze was suave and languorous with June,
Nature and I waited thy coming there!

I watched the crimson of the roses, strewn
As if to carpet thee love's pathway rare,
And listened to thy signal, that soft tune
Once lulled within the great heart of Schubert!

I heard thy footfall; — joy hath one surprise
Death can not conquer with its cruel power.
The starry scraps of Heaven within thine eyes
Still light my soul in that delicious hour

O SILVER bird, fly down, fly down,
Bring thy fair gifts to him and me:
A purse contains a minted crown,
A golden ring for me.
Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.

But upon the highest bough
See amid the leaves he swings,
Pipes three notes of laughter low,
Flirts, and folds his flashy wings.
Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.

What is't, bird, thy soul demands?
Come, I'll rock thee in my breast;
I will stroke thee with my hands;
Where none rested thou shalt rest. . . .
Ah! lovely bird, fly down, fly down.

Sweet enslaver of the heart,
Radiant spirit born above,
Who can tell us what thou art,
Winning, wildering, witching love?

Hope and memory, care and thought,
Joy and sorrow, fear and pain,
All mysteriously inwrought
Are the linklets of thy chain.

Giver of our earliest breath;
Soother when our hearts are riven;
Mourner by the bed of death;
Porter at the gate of Heaven:

Dweller by the cottage hearth;
Ruler in the palace bower;
Holiest gift of Heaven to earth,
How transcendent is thy power!

In its deep essence, genius means but worth;
For who would paint the various qualities
Of man and nature, trace their growth and birth,
Must make their being his by sympathies,
Whose root is love. Thus, genius in the bad
Is still the reflex of a better life
There lingering, though with splendour shorn and sad.
Love draws the circle of imagination,
And in the heart's full day the wide creation
Lies clear, in beauty garb'd, with meaning rife;
And as love's sun declines, so fancy's ken
Contracts, and the mean will doth only crave

I.

Be Friend or Foe,
More Kindness show,
Or show me yet more kind Disdain;
 Your Torturing Indifference,
  Worse than your Scorn,
  Is to be born,
 My Passion does to Rage Incense;
To make us, of your Mercy, more complain,
When constant Cruelty wou'd end our Pain:

II.

  If I must Die,
  Kill suddenly,
If Sentence on my Life must pass;
 I, by more Grief, more Ease shall gain,
  Dispatch in Love,
  As Death will prove,
 But much more Pity, as more Pain;
More Cruelty, more Mercy were, and Grace,

Where is thy home, love? Where bright skies are flinging
Rich, mellow light over tropical bowers,
Where glad birds of beautiful plumage are singing
And butterflies wooing the odorous flowers;
Where the soft south wind strays,
And palm leaves quiver,
Through the long pleasant days,
By some bright river —
Is thy home there?

Where is thy home, love? Where true men are braving
Danger and death on the red battle-plain;
Where, in the cannon's smoke, banners are waving,
And the wild war-horse is trampling the slain;