The parting pang is o'er;

Thou now wilt bleed no more, Poor broken heart, farewell! No rest for thee but dying

Like waves, whose strife is past, On death's cold shore thus lying, Thou sleep'st in peace at lastPoor broken heart, farewell!

THE EAST INDIAN.

COME, May, with all thy flowers,
Thy sweetly-scented thorn,

Thy cooling ev'ning showers,

Thy fragrant breath at morn:
When May-flies haunt the willow,

When May-buds tempt the bee,
Then o'er the shining billow
My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging
Through wat'ry wilds her way,
And on her cheek is bringing

The bright sun's orient ray:
Oh, come and court her hither,
Ye breezes mild and warm
One winter's gale would wither
So soft, so pare & form.

The fields where she was straying
Are blest with endless light,
With zephyrs always playing

Through gardens always bright.
Then now, sweet May! be sweeter
Than e'er thou'st been before;

Let sighs from roses meet her

When she comes near our shore.

POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

POOR broken flow'r! what art can now recover thee? Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath

In vain the sun-beams seek

To warm that faded cheek;

The dews of heav'n, that once like balm fell over thee, Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,— Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou; In vain the smiles of all

Like sun-beams round her fall;

The only smile that could from death awaken her, That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

BEING weary of love,

I flew to the grove,

And chose me a tree of the fairest;
Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree,

"Thou my mistress shalt be,

"And I'll worship each bud thou bearest.
"For the hearts of this world are hollow,
"And fickle the smiles we follow ;

"And 't is sweet, when all
"Their witch'ries pall

"To have a pure love to fly to:

"So, my pretty Rose-tree,

"Thou my mistress shalt be,

"And the only one now I shall sigh to."

When the beautiful hue

Of thy cheek through the dew

Of morning is bashfully peeping,
"Sweet tears," I shall say

(As I brush them away),

"At least there's no art in this weeping." Although thou shouldst die to-morrow, "T will not be from pain or sorrow; And the thorns of thy stem

Are not like them

With which men wound each other:

So my pretty Rose-tree,

Thou my mistress shalt be,

And I'll ne'er again sigh to another.

SHINE OUT, STARS!

SHINE out, Stars! let Heav'n assemble
Round us every festal ray,

Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
All to grace this Eve of May.
Let the flow'r-beds all lie waking,
And the odours shut up there,
From their downy prisons breaking,
Fly abroad through sea and air.

And would Love, too, bring his sweetness, With our other joys to weave,

Oh what glory, what completeness,

Then would crown this bright May Eve!

Shine out, Stars! let night assemble

Round us every festal ray,

Lights that move not, lights that tremble,

To adorn this Eve of May.

THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA

OH, the joys of our ev'ning posada,
Where, resting at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
Sit and sing the sunshine away;
So merry, that even the slumbers,
That round us hung, seem gone;
Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers
Again beguile them on.

Oh the joys, etc..

Then as each to his lov'd sultana
In sleep still breathes the sigh,
The name of some black-eyed Tirana
Escapes our lips as we lie.

Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,

Again we're up and gone

While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle
Beguiles the rough way on.
Oh the joys of our merry posada,
Where, resting at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

Thus sing the gay moments away.