And yet, 'twas time;-in youth's sweet days,

To cool that season's glowing rays,

The heart a while, with wanton wing,
May dip and dive in Pleasure's spring;
But, if it wait for winter's breeze,
The spring will chill, the heart will freeze.
And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope,-

Oh! she awaked such happy dreams,
And gave my soul such tempting scope
For all its dearest, fondest schemes,
That not Verona's child of song,

When flying from the Phrygian shore,
With lighter heart could bound along,
Or pant to be a wand'rer more!

Even now delusive hope will steal Amid the dark regrets I feel, Soothing, as yonder placid beam

Pursues the murmurers of the deep, And lights them with consoling gleam, And smiles them into tranquil sleep. Oh! such a blessed night as this,

I often think, if friends were near, How we should feel, and gaze with bliss Upon the moon-bright scenery here! The sea is like a silvery lake,

And o'er its calm the vessel glides

Gently, as if it fear'd to wake

The slumber of the silent tides.

The only envious cloud that lowers

Hath hung its shade on Pico's height,
Where dimly, mid the dusk, he towers,

And scowling at this heav'n of light,
Exults to see the infant storm
Cling darkly round his giant form!

Now, could I range those verdant isles,
Invisible at this soft hour,

And see the looks, the beaming smiles,
That brighten many an orange bower;
And could I lift each pious veil,

And see the blushing cheek it shades,-
Oh! I should have full many a tale,
To tell of young Azorian maids.
Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps,
Some lover (not too idly blest,
Like those, who in their ladies' laps
May cradle every wish to rest)
Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul,
Those madrigals, of breath divine,
Which Camoens' harp from Rapture stole,
And
gave, all glowing warm, to thine.

Oh! could the lover learn from thee,

And breathe them with thy graceful tone, Such sweet, beguiling minstrelsy

Would make the coldest nymph his own.

But, hark!—the boatswain's pipings tell

'Tis time to bid my dream farewell : Eight bells-the middle watch is set; Good night, my Strangford !-ne'er forget

That, far beyond the western sea

Is one whose heart remembers thee.

FROM

LALLA ROOKH."

HERE'S a bower of roses by BENDEMEER'S stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long: In the time of my childhood 't was like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.