Birds are singing in the closes —
Singing for joy of June.
Scent of English violets
Mingles with the mignonette's;
And the garden's red with roses,
When the glad brown thrushes croon —
Thrushes crooning in the closes
All this rose-sweet June.

Rarer joy than yours has found me,
Birds of the rose-sweet June!
Maidenhood with Maytime ended;
Love, the strong one, o'er me bended,
And with orange blossoms crowned me
In the hot, sweet summer noon.
Rarer joy than yours has found me —
Love's year has its June.

I GAVE my love a budding rose
My infant passion to disclose;
And, looking in her radiant eye,
I sought to read my destiny:
She breathed upon it — it became,
Mature in form, no more the same,
As when with timid fears opprest.

I placed the rose bud on her breast.
Again she breathed in sportive play,
And wafted all the leaves away;
" And thus, " she cried, " your vows of love
As passing and as light would prove
As this dispersed and faded flow'r;
One sigh expanded it to bloom,
Another sigh and it was gone,

I'm a boy of all work, a complete little servant,
Tho' now out of place, like a beggar I rove;
Though in waiting so handy, in duty so fervent,
The Heart (could you think it?) has turn'd away Love!

He pretends to require, growing older and older,
A nurse more expert his chill fits to remove;
But sure ev'ry Heart will grow colder and colder
Whose fires are not lighted and fuel'd by Love!

He fancies that Friendship, my puritan brother,
In journies and visits more useful will prove;
But the Heart will soon find, when it calls on another,

The orange hangs upon the blooming tree,
 The blushing roses load the lifted vine,
 The wandering air, faint-scented of the brine,
Comes stealing softly from the distant sea.

Awake, my love, my love, I sing to thee,
 The stars are dreaming in the far-off sky,
The night's warm wing will shelter thee and me,
 The white-plumed yucca guards the gate hard by.

  Here at thy window, love, I stand,
   And bless thy heart the while;
  Awake, my love, stretch forth thy hand,
   And bless me with thy smile.

One conned my simple lines with cynic art,
Then smiled, as though he found a friend in me,
And read: “If Love alone possess your heart,
Then can you never more unhappy be.”

Another, feeling still Love's bitter dart,
Smiled through her joyful tears triumphantly,
And read: “If Love alone possess your heart,
“Then can you nevermore unhappy be.”

Into the air I breathed a sigh;
She, afar, another breathed —
Sighs that, like a butterfly,
Each went wandering low and high,
Till the air with sighs was wreathed.

When each other long they sought,
On a star-o'er-twinkled hill
Jasmine, trembling with the thought,
Both within her chalice caught,
A lover's potion to distil.

Drank of this a nightingale,
Guided by the starlight wan —
Drank and sang from dale to dale,
Till every streamlet did exhale
Incense to the waking dawn.

Like the dawn, the maiden heard;

Love begg'd and pray'd old Time to stay,
Whilst he and Psyche toy'd together;
Love held his wings, Time tore away,
But, in the scuffle, dropp'd a feather!

Love seiz'd the prize, and with his dart,
Adroitly work'd to trim and shape it; —
" O Psyche! tho' 'tis pain to part,
This charm shall make us half escape it!

" Time need not fear to fly too slow,
When he this useful loss discovers;
A pen's the only plume I know,
That wings his pace for absent lovers! "

Fond dream of love by love repaid,
How soon thy dear illusions flew!
Lavinia smiled, seducing maid!
And then her flattering smile withdrew.

But still that smile, where'er I stray,
In fancy haunts and charms my sight,
Adds splendor to the blaze of day,
And gives it to the gloom of night.

And nought my captive heart can free,
Love as the soul of life I view,
Then, if the soul immortal be,
My love must be immortal too.

TO fair B ELINDA crown the sparkling Bowl,
And let full Bumpers brighten up the Soul;
Yet these small Comforts to my Passion prove,
I'd drink an everlasting DraughTof Love.

Hence far from me, ye senseless joys
That fade before ye reach the heart,....
The crowded dome's distracted noise,
Where all is pomp and useless art!

Give me my home, to quiet dear,
Where hours untold and peaceful move;
So fate ordain I sometimes there
May hear the voice of him I love.

I hate e'en music's pleasing power
When giddy crowds my tones attend,
But love to sing at evening's hour
To sooth the sorrows of a friend.

I love to breathe the plaintive lays
That Henry's heart and taste approve,