[Illustration:  MEMORIES OF YOUTH]

  Dearest, how thy music’s charms
    Waft me dancing through the sky! 
  Let me round thee clasp my arms,
    Lest in glory I should die!

  Dearest, sunny wreaths I wear,
    Twined around me by thy lay. 
  For thy garlands, rich and rare,
    O how can I thank thee?  Say!

  Like the angels I would be
    Without mortal frame,
  Whose sweet converse is like thought,
    Sounding with acclaim;

  Or like flowers in the dale;
    Like the stars that glow,
  Whose love-song’s a beam, whose words
    Like sweet odors flow;

  Or like to the breeze of morn,
    Waving round its rose,
  In love’s dallying caress
    Melting as it blows.

  But the love-lorn nightingale
    Melteth not away;
  She doth but with longing tones
    Chant her plaintive lay.

  I am, too, a nightingale,
    Songless though I sing;
  ’Tis my pen that speaks, though ne’er
    In the ear it ring.

  Beaming images of thought
    Doth the pen portray;
  But without thy gentle smile
    Lifeless e’er are they.

  As thy look falls on the leaf,
    It begins to sing,
  And the prize that’s due to love
    In her ear doth ring.

  Like a Memmon’s statue now
    Every letter seems,
  Which in music wakes, when kissed
    By the morning’s beams.

* * * * *

  “HE CAME TO MEET ME"[52] (1821)

  He came to meet me
    In rain and thunder;
  My heart ’gan beating
    In timid wonder. 
  Could I guess whither
  Thenceforth together
    Our path should run, so long asunder?

  He came to meet me
    In rain and thunder,
  With guile to cheat me—­
    My heart to plunder. 
  Was’t mine he captured? 
  Or his I raptured? 
    Half-way both met, in bliss and wonder!

  He came to meet me
    In rain and thunder;
  Spring-blessings greet me
    Spring-blossoms under. 
  What though he leave me? 
  No partings grieve me—­
    No path can lead our hearts asunder.

       * * * * *
  THE INVITATION[53] (1821)

  Thou, thou art rest
    And peace of soul—­
  Thou woundst the breast
    And makst it whole.

  To thee I vow
    ’Mid joy or pain
  My heart, where thou
    Mayst aye remain.

  Then enter free,
    And bar the door
  To all but thee
    Forevermore.

  All other woes
    Thy charms shall lull;
  Of sweet repose
    This heart be full.

  My worshipping eyes
    Thy presence bright
  Shall still suffice,
    Their only light.

* * * * *

  MURMUR NOT[54]

  Murmur not and say thou art in fetters holden,
    Murmur not that thou earth’s heavy yoke must bear. 
  Say not that a prison is this world so golden—­
    ’Tis thy murmurs only set its harsh walls there.