It is the spell, my blooming maid,

Which lingers round thy charms,
That woos me to the twilight shade
And beds me in thine arms.

'Tis not the smile that gives to light
Thy teeth of pearly die,

Nor is it yet thy ringlets bright,
Disporting lovelily.

It is the spell, my blooming maid,
Which lingers round thy charms,
That woos me to the twilight shade,
And beds me in thine arms.

'Tis not thy harp, that flings around

Fit music for above

'Tis not thy voice's silvery sound,
Though breath'd to words of love.

It is the spell, my blooming maid,
Which lingers round thy charms,
That woos me to the twilight shade,

And beds me in thine arms.

Drink plenteously, my thirsty eyes,

From such a fount of bliss;

Inhale, my soul, through humid sighs,

The nectar of her kiss.

Pant, pant, my heart, with flutterings wild,
And throb, my burning breast;

Who loves not fiercely beauty's child,

By love should ne'er be blest.

Then wake the spell, my blooming maid,
Which lingers round thy charms,

And bid me to the twilight shade,
To nestle in thine arms.

WRITTEN IN

GARDENS

"The dove flies not alone,

The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair."
"Amour, amour, quand tu nous tiens
On peut bien dire-adieu prudence !"

LET the silver lute of love,

Lightly breathe its silken measure—

Let the fair and faithful rove

Round our flowery haunt of pleasure.

Let Æolia's murm'ring string

Swell the wanton zephyr's sigh—

Let our choral voices fling

Symphon to the starry sky.

Let Anacreon's fervid lyre

In its melting numbers speak

Let the flush of fond desire

Print its rose on beauty's cheek.

Let the heart that pulses true,

Seek a home on woman's breast, Like the wandering dove that flew Erewhile to its ark of rest.

O'er our leafy bower of love,

Warbling peris now are winging,

While their dewy pinions move

To the tender lay they 're singing.

Sweet's the sleep in moon-lit cell,

Beneath the clustering woodbine-shade,

But sweeter far, than I may tell,

To share that sleep with blushing maid.

THE DARK CAVALIER.

'Love's heralds should be thoughts

Which ten times faster glide than the sun-beams, Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings."

"Her inmost soul

Floating in bliss, she all dissolved away
As dew on roses in the morning's beams
Evaporating melts."

“O WHERE is my dark Cavalier,"

As she wept, thus a lone beauty cries, Young Love dipp'd his dart in her tear, And wrote on the wind her fond sighs.

The night-wind to lovers is true,

The lone beauty's plaint it has borne,

On his Arab the cavalier flew,

And ceas'd has his dove-mate to mourn.

He sooth'd the fair maid on his breast, "Behold thy true Leman," he cried,