"Love has a tongue which dare not praise, But language in its silence dwells Love has an eye that cannot gaze,

Yet with a glance its secret tells.

"The lip, the cheek, have magic speech, A blush may plead-a smile persuade; But hearts are dumb, and none can teach The rebel tongue to lend them aid.

"And charity, from mortal sight,

Retires its busy glance to shun; She walks in shadow, but has light From him whose eye is in the sun.

"She loves the valley, and her rest

Is the world-wearied heart's recess;
And once, when man was Eden's quest,
He knew, and call'd her happiness."

Smiling, the lady stoop'd to fill
Her maple cup at Deva's rill.
"Palmer! (she cried,) the widow's cruise
Yields not the spicy purple juice;
Yet take this draught-a boon so small
She weeps to give-but gives thee all."

Softly she smiled, and meekly spoke,-
Why shook the Palmer as he quaff'd,
From hands so fair the gentle draught;
With lifted eye and loosen'd cloak,
Back from his shining armour thrown?
The red light of the fading west,
Seem'd on his shrivell'd brow to rest,
Like glory on a broken throne.

"Fair lady, thou hast taught me well How happiness on earth may dwell.

"It is when bending by the grave Of him who stung my trusting heart, And rent away its dearest part,

I learn to bless, forgive, and save!

"Thou know'st me now; but never yet Did hate the cup of peace repay :

A dagger's hilt would ill befit

The hand which thus on thine I lay.

"I loved thee when no eye but mine
Upon thy virgin beauty dwelt,-
I loved thee-for no heart but thine
A captive's silent sorrows felt.

"Thy husband wrong'd me,-I am he Whose vengeance laid thy banners low; But never to a nobler foe

Did holy earth give sepulchre.

"They said thy monarch's heart was chill.— But, lady! look on mine, and learn,

How deep beneath a frozen hill

A never-dying flame may burn.

"Fair Agnes! Iceland springs are soft,-
The sun in polar climes is bright,-
And love's own gentle planet oft

Beams fairest in the wintry night.

Lady! yon pale round moon shall wane,
Ere with his pilgrim-staff again

A palmer at thy gate shall stand.—
Then fill the goblet to the brim,
The taper and the hearth-fire trim :

Thy boon may bless a monarch's hand.
Turn, mourner, to thy home, and prove
Kings vanquish noble foes by love."

Ere the new moon's silver horn was bow'd,
The lady sat in her castle proud.

High in her hall a goblet shone,

Of the onyx pale and the purple stone;
And its base was a gem, so pure and bright,
It seem'd an orb of golden light.

The heart-worn pilgrim's sorrows sank
Whene'er of that precious cup he drank.-

But he who would its sweetness prove,
This legend on its brim may see,
If his eye and tongue are true to love,
And his heart and hand to charity.

V.

SONNET TO

THERE, on the streamlet's bank-her grassy bed-
In careless posture, loosely robed, she lies;
One lily arm thrown circling o'er her eyes,
And one, the downy pillow to her head.
Her silken hair, in wavy ringlets shed,

Half veils her red cheek from the burning skies;
And on her thin-robed bosom softly dies
The murmuring breeze in odorous gardens bred.
O sweet and beautiful the dreams must be,

That visit such a frame when sleep has sealed Its mortal sense, and left the immortal free! Yet visions more divine thou canst not see,

Than the real bliss, to mortal sense reveal'd, That raps my soul while gazing thus on thee.

Königsberg, July 25, 1817.

STANZAS.

WHILE thou at eventide art roaming
Along the elm-o'ershadow'd walk,-
While past the eddying stream is foaming,
And falling down,-a cataract,—
Where I to thee was wont to talk,
Think thou upon the days gone by,
And heave a sigh!

When sails the moon above the mountains,

And cloudless skies are purely blue,

And sparkle in the light the fountains,

And darker frowns the lonely yew,—
Then be thou melancholy too,
When pausing on the hours I proved
With thee, beloved!

When wakes the dawn upon thy dwelling,
And lingering shadows disappear;
As soft the woodland songs are swelling
A choral anthem on thine ear;

Muse for that hour to thought is dear,
And then its flight remembrance wings
To by-past things.

To me through every season dearest ;
In every scene,-by day, by night,
Thou present to my mind appearest,
A quenchless star, for ever bright,—
My solitary, sole delight,-

Alone, in wood, by shore, at sea,
I think of thee!

CARLISLE YETTS.

WHITE was the rose in his gay bonnet,
As he faulded me in his broached plaidie ;
His hand whilk clasped the truth of luve,
O it was aye in battle readie!

His lang lang hair in yellow hanks

Waved o'er his cheeks sae sweet and ruddie;

But now they wave o'er Carlisle yetts

In dripping ringlets clotting bloodie.

My father's blood's in that flower tap,
My brother's in that hare-bell blossom;
This white rose was steep'd in my luve's blood,
An' I'll ay wear it in my bosom.

When I first cam by merry Carlisle,
Was ne'er a town sae sweetly seeming;
The white rose flaunted o'er the wall,
The thistled banners far were streaming!
When I cam next by merry Carlisle,
O, sad sad seem'd the town, an' eerie !
The auld auld men cam out and wept-
"O maiden, come ye to seek yere dearie ?”

There's ae drap of bluid atween my breasts,
An' twa in my links o' hair so yellow:

The tane I'll ne'er wash, and the tither ne'er kame,
But I'll sit and pray aneath the willow.

Wae wae upon that cruel heart,

Wae wae upon that hand sae bludie,

Which feasts in our richest Scottish bluid,

And makes sae mony a doleful widow!