It was a childish ignorance,

But now 'tis little joy

To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

BALLAD.

SIGH on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse
And Beauty's fairest queen,
Though 'tis not for my peasant lips
To soil her name between:

A king might lay his sceptre down,
But I am poor and nought,
The brow should wear a golden crown
That wears her in its thought.

The diamonds glancing in her hair,
Whose sudden beams surprise,
Might bid such humble hopes beware
The glancing of her eyes;

Yet looking once, I looked too long,
And if my love is sin,

Death follows on the heels of wrong,

And kills the crime within.

Her dress seemed wove of lily leaves,
It was so pure and fine,

O lofty wears, and lowly weaves,
But hoddan gray is mine;

And homely hose must step apart,

Where gartered princes stand,

But may he wear my love at heart
That wins her lily hand!

Alas! there's far from russet frieze
To silks and satin gowns,

But I doubt if God made like degrees
In courtly hearts and clowns.

My father wronged a maiden's mirth,
And brought her cheeks to blame,
And all that's lordly of my birth
Is my reproach and shame!

Tis vain to weep, - 'tis vain to sigh,
"Tis vain this idle speech,

For where her happy pearls do lie
My tears may never reach;
Yet when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride
May say of what has been,

His love was nobly born and died,
Though all the rest was mean!

My speech is rude, - but speech is weak
Such love as mine to tell,

Yet had I words, I dare not speak,

So, lady, fare thee well;*

I will not wish thy better state
Was one of low degree,

But I must weep that partial fate
Made such a churl of me.

THE WATER LADY.

ALAS! the moon should ever beam

To show what man should never see!

I saw a maiden on a stream,

And fair was she!

I staid a while, to see her throw
Her tresses back, that all beset
The fair horizon of her brow
With clouds of jet.

I staid a little while to view

Her cheek, that wore in place of red
The bloom of water, tender blue,
Daintily spread.

I staid to watch, a little space,
Her parted lips if she would sing;
The waters closed above her face
With many a ring.

And still I staid a little more;
Alas! she never comes again!

I throw my flowers from the shore,
And watch in vain.

I know my life will fade away,
I know that I must vainly pine;
For I am made of mortal clay,
But she's divine!

TO AN ABSENTEE.

O'ER hill, and dale, and distant sea,
Through all the miles that stretch between,
My thought must fly to rest on thee,
And would, though worlds should intervene.

Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks
The further we are forced apart,

Affection's firm elastic links

But bind the closer round the heart.

For now we sever each from each,
I learn what I have lost in thee;
Alas! that nothing less could teach
How great indeed my love should be !

Farewell! I did not know thy worth: But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized : So angels walked unknown on earth, But when they flew were recognized!

SONG.

THE stars are with the voyager
Wherever he may sail;

The moon is constant to her time;
The sun will never fail ;

But follow, follow round the world,
The green earth and the sea;
So love is with the lover's heart,.
Wherever he may be.

Wherever he may be, the stars

Must daily lose their light;. The moon will veil her in the shade; The sun will set at night.

The sun may set, but constant love

Will shine when he's away;

So that dull night is never night,

And day is brighter day.

ODE TO THE MOON.

MOTHER of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led !—

Art thou that huntress of the silver bow
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread

Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below,

Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow,

Where hunter never climbed, secure from dread?
How many antique fancies have I read

Of that mild presence! and how many wrought!
Wondrous and bright,

Upon the silver light,

Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought!

What art thou like?

sometimes I see thee ride

A far-bound galley on its perilous way,

Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray:
Sometimes behold thee glide,

Clustered by all thy family of stars,

Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide,
Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars;
Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep,
Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,

Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep,
To catch the young Endymion asleep, —
Leaving thy splendor at the jagged porch!—

O, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be!
Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named;
And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed
A silver idol, and ne'er worshipped thee!
It is too late, or thou shouldst have my knee;