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That dwelt in every silver tone

She drew from each sweet string : Oh! no,-the songs she made her own

I will not hear them sing !

The songs she sung—the songs she sung!

How few and faint the words
Of praise that fell whene'er she flung

Her fingers o'er the chords ;
No plaudit followed when the strain

Died on the quivering air,
But tears were gushing forth like rain,

And lips were quivering there !
The songs she sung—the songs she sung !

Long, grieving years are fled, Earth's yearnings from the heart are flung,

Earth's hopes are with the dead; And worldly wrongs—forgot-forgiven

Sleep in Death's second birth; But I would only hear in Heaven

The songs she gave to earth !

“Why? Because.”—LINDLEY MURRAY.
Sweet Nea !—for your lovely sake

I weave these rambling numbers,
Because I've lain an hour awake,

And can't compose my slumbers;
Because your beauty's gentle light

Is round my pillow beaming,

And flings, I know not why, to-night,

Some witchery o'er my dreaming !

Because we've passed some joyous days,

And danced some merry dances; Because you love old Beaumont's plays,

And old Froissart's romances ! Because, whene'er I hear your words,

Some pleasant feeling lingers ; Because I think your heart has chords

That vibrate to my fingers !



Because you've got those long, soft curls

I've sworn should deck my goddess; Because you're not, like other girls,

All bustle, blush, and bodice ! Because your eyes are deep and blue,

Your fingers long and rosy ; Because a little child and you

Would make one's home so cosy!

Because your little tiny nose

Turns up so pert and funny ;Because I know you choose your beaux

More for their mirth than money;
Because I think you'd rather twirl

A waltz, with me to guide you,
Than talk small nonsense with an Earl,

And a coronet beside you !


Because you don't object to walk,

And are not given to fainting; Because you have not learned to talk

Of flowers and Poonah-painting ;


Because I think you'd scarce refuse

To sew one on a button;
Because I know you'd sometimes choose

To dine on simple mutton !
Because I think I'm just so weak

As, some of those fine morrows,
To ask you if you'll let me speak

My story—and my sorrows :
Because the rest's a simple thing,

A matter quickly over,
A church-a priest~a sigh-a ring-

Ard a chaise-and-four for Dover!

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DEAR minstrel, the dangers are not to be told

Of those strains which have trebly undone me, A victim to pity, to love, and to cold,

I'll be dead by the time thou hast won me !

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Oh ! think for a moment-whoever thou art,

On the woes that beset me together,—
If thou wilt not consider the state of my heart,

Oh! think of the state of the weather.


How keenly around me the night breezes blow,

How sweetly thy parting note lingers,
Ah! would that the glow of my heart could bestow

A share of its warmth to--my fingers 1

But though she who would watch while the

nightingales sing
Should scorn to let cold overcome her,-
Though, like other sweet birds, you begin in the

I can't fall in love till the Summer.


“ And none did love him-not his lemans dear."


No mistress of the hidden skill,

No wizard gaunt and grim,
Went up by night to heath or hill

To read the stars for him ;
The merriest girl in all the land

Of vine-encircled France
Bestowed upon his brow and hand

Her philosophic glance:
I bind thee with a spell,” said she,

“I sign thee with a sign;
No woman's love shall light on thee,

No woman's heart be thine !


“And trust me, 'tis not that thy cheek

Is colourless and cold ;
Nor that thine eye is slow to speak

What only eyes have told ;
And many a cheek of paler white

Hath blushed with passion's kiss,
And many an eye of lesser light

llath caught its fire from bliss;

Yet while the rivers seek the sea,

And while the young stars shine,
No woman's love shall light on thee,-

No woman's heart be thine !
“ And 'tis not that thy spirit, awed

By Beauty's numbing spell,
Shrinks from the force or from the fraud

Which Beauty loves so well ;
For thou hast learned to watch, and wake,

And swear by earth and sky;
And thou art very bold to take

What we must still deny:
I cannot tell ;—the charm was wrought

By other threads than mine!
The lips are lightly begged or bought,-

The heart may not be thine !

“ Yet thine the brightest smiles shall be

That ever Beauty wore;
And confidence from two or three,

And compliments from more;
And one shall give-perchance hath given-

What only is not love,-
Friendship,-oh! such as saints in heaven

Rain on us from above:
If she shall meet thee in the bower,

Or name thee in the shrine,
O wear the ring and guard the flower !

Her heart may not be thine !

“Go, set thy boat before the blast,

Thy breast before the gun ;
The haven shall be reached at last,

The battle shall be won:

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