and azure main,
Each year I duly come again;
A stranger from yon heavenly plain
Of light and bliss; as poets feign.

TO MY LYRE.

O harp, with whom my childhood played,
Within that verdant dell,
O'erbower'd by boughs of grateful shade,
I go--Farewell! farewell!

If I have durst to raise thy tone
To sing a theme too high,
Thou, thou must bear the sin alone,
O harp, not I, not I.

For, thou had'st witch'd me with a love
Where reason had no part;
I felt that thou would'st e'en approve,
And fondly heard my heart.

The song hath ended. Silence falls
Round the enchanted dell;
Awhile I heed no more thy calls,
Sweet harp! farewell! farewell!

YOU ASK WHY I AM LONELY NOW.

You ask why I am lonely now,
In all this brilliant scene,
And why I look on beauty's charms,
With cold, unalter'd mien.

You say that, many a loving heart,
Would joy to be my own,
That none of all the human race,
Should ever live alone.

I'll tell you why I'm lonely now,
If grief will let me speak,
And why I glance on woman's charms
With cold, unalter'd cheek.

'Twas in my boyhood's happy days,
I loved a blue-eyed maid;
The light of heaven o'er that young cheek,
In changeful feeling stray'd!

I loved her with a love as true,
As ever dwelt on earth;
Oh sure my worship was too deep,
Even at that shrine of worth.

She loved me not, that knowledge fell,
Upon me like a blight;
Ah me! I am too fondly weak?
Is this a teardrop bright?

You asked why I am lonely now,
And I the tale have told:
And I shall yet be lonely, till
The grave my heart shall hold.

OLD HOMESTEAD.

Old homestead! old homestead! what feelings arise!
As now the old homestead greets kindly our eyes;
Old homestead, where oft we were merry or sad;
Each day as it fled, still some witchery had.

The homestead! how dear is its old, friendly look,
Its dun rolling hills, and its slow running brook;
Its time-worn, old gables, and cornice so plain,
Its roof that grew mossy from shadow and rain.

Old homestead! some dwelt with us, loved with us here;
Some smiled at our smile, and they wept at our tear:
Of those some have gone to a far distant land;
And some--where yon cedars like pale mourners stand.

Oh! memories most thrilling, most holy, most dear,
Still cluster around thee, old homestead, fore'er;
Thou hast a deep magic that never can die,
'Till 'neath the green valley, we endlessly lie.