.

_Lonely warbling bird of night!
Leave thy bough and perch above
The silent, dewy folds of white
That screen my sleeping love.
Drink the moonlight rays that fall
Pure and mellow, like the beams
Of starry eyes beyond my call,
Far in the land of dreams.
Tell her I am brave and strong;
Tell her I have loved her long;
Singing softly, like a dove,
Tell her all you know of love
I cannot tell in song.

Tell her I am waiting here
At the threshold of her bower;
Winds are lifting far and near
The sweets of every flower,
All the stars are out in state,
Music breathes in every stir,
All of nature seems to wait
For a glimpse of her.
Tell her I am brave and strong;
Tell her I have loved her long;
Singing softly like a dove,
Tell her all you know of love
I cannot tell in song._

Is it the wind that swings apart
The deerskin door from the lodge away?
Is it a sudden leap of his heart
That makes too vivid fancy play?
Or is it a nut-brown arm that holds
The trembling folds,
And are those liquid eyes that shine
Like diamonds fine?
Sing on, sing on, bold youth,
And hope shall lead thee to the truth!

_She is lovelier than the sky,
Sweeter than the freshest bud,
I can no longer wait and sigh
Here in the moonlight flood;
All my heart is at her feet,
All my strength at her behest;
O sing, and bid her come to greet
The one who loves her best!
Tell her I am brave and strong;
Tell her I have loved her long;
Singing softly, like a dove,
Tell her all you know of love
I cannot tell in song._

His manly voice entreating calls
As softly as the dewdrop falls.
He ceases, and the night winds hush
As if they too had waited long;
The organ river's chanting rush
Seems but an echo of his song.
And shall he wait and plead in vain?
Ah, no! love is not always pain;
For see, the folds are drawn aside,
And dimly there may be descried
A shadowy form of shadowy grace,
That halts while still in gloom arrayed,
With eyes that light the tawny face
And tresses darker than the shade.

O spell of song! O power and thrill
Of love! O dream that sways
The blood of youth, that feels no chill
Till love betrays!

O hark! ye sprites that haunt this time,--
This quiet moon-lit hour,
When Cupid weaves, in every clime,
His web of subtlest power,--
O, can ye hear, and not rejoice,
The music of a maiden's voice?

"Anpetusapa's glance would meet
The night bird that can sing so sweet."
With what a boun