A SONG.

DO dream by day more than by nightTo see but one sweet face;

To chafe at Time's too rapid flight-
To curse his limping pace;

Be faint with joy-be wild with woe—
Be raised the stars above-
To fall as deep the earth below,
This, this it is to love!

As from a fevered sleep to start,

Your eyes around to cast,

In search of aught which to the heart

May realize the past;

A tress of hair-a withered flower

The fragment of a glove—

Alone remain in that dark hour

Of all your dream of love!

HE dear old haunts once more I've seen,
Where many an autumn day,
With one so long, so fondly loved,
It was my joy to stray-

The sunny field, the mazy woods,

The quiet leafy lane

The gate at which so oft we met,
But ne'er shall meet again!

The golden meads no more derive
A glory from her eyes;
Her fairy form no longer makes

The wood a paradise.

But sacred still is every spot,

Though flown be many a year

No word, no smile, no sigh forgot,

That made them first so dear!

TO MY WIFE AFTER AN ILLNESS.

H dear as thou wert, when of health the red

rose

O'er thy cheek all its loveliness shed,

Believe me, this bosom more tenderness knows, For thee, now that its bright hues have fled. Enchanting as then was the task to adore

The beauty that played round thy brow, The feeling is sweeter that bids me watch o'er And cheer thee and cherish thee now.

June 4, 1820.

LOVE thee! I love thee! I've rushed from

thy bower

To murmur my secret beside the lone sea!

No mortal is near me !

The waves only hear me !

I whisper to them what I dare not to thee!

Oh rapture! to roam the wild beach at this hour,
And pour forth unchecked all my deep love for thee!

I love thee! I love thee! But ne'er shall thou

dream it;

'Tis folly! 'tis madness! Thou couldst not love me. Then why by revealing

My heart's treasured feeling,

The torture incur of one cold glance from thee?
Ah no! let me doat on in silence, and dream it
Atones for my crime, if 'tis crime to love thee!

I'M IN LOVE.

Composed by F. CLAY. Sung by SIMS REEVES.

O'M in love, there's no denying,

As deep as deep can be;

And I'm sighing! sighing! sighing!
For a girl who loves not me.
From my heart still vainly trying
Her sweet image out to blot;
Ever dying! dying! dying!

For a girl who loves me not.

There is nought I prize above her,
None on earth like her I see;
And I love her! love her! love her!
Though I know she loves not me.
Scenes and sounds in memory floating
Which can never be forgot,

Keep me doating! doating! doating!
On a girl who loves me not.