ANACREONTIC.

THE MOON IS UP!

THE moon is up!—and while the cars
Of night are out, we will not sleep,

Send round the bowl, and show the stars
What vigils earthly spirits keep!

And, if the vines, in yonder sky,

Weep,.for their host, such purple tears,

The poet's tale may be no lie,

That paints them 'singing in their spheres'!

Shall we, because hope's fount is dry,
Shun every fount that woos the soul?—
The pang that blights the heart and eye
Was never gathered from the bowl!

If

f eyes be dim, that, once, were bright, To weep will hardly make them brighter, And, if our hearts be far from light,

At least, we'll strive to make them lighter!

Fill high the glass !-to-night we'll try,
For once, to make a truce with sorrow,

And they who think it wise to sigh,

May drink to-night, and sigh to-morrow!—
While we, who love the better mood

To gather gladness where we may,
Will hail, across this beaming flood,
The dawning of a happier day!

SLUMBER LIE SOFT ON THY BEAUTIFUL EYE!

SLUMBER lie soft on thy beautiful eye!

Spirits, whose smiles are-like thine-of the sky,
Play thee to sleep, with their visionless strings,
Brighter than thou, but because they have wings!
Fair as a being of heavenly birth,

But loving and loved like a child of the earth!

Why is that tear?-art thou gone, in thy dream,
To the valley far-off, and the moon-lighted stream,

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SLUMBER LIE SOFT ON THY BEAUTIFUL EYE!

Where the sighing of flowers and the nightingale's song

Fling sweets on the wave, as it wanders along!—

Blest be the dream that restores them to thee,

But thou art the bird and the roses to me!

And now, as I watch o'er thy slumbers, alone,

And hear thy soft breathing, and know thee mine own, And muse on the wishes that grew in that vale,

And the fancies we shaped from the river's low tale,

I blame not the fate which has taken the rest,

Since it left, to my bosom, its dearest and best!

Slumber lie soft on thy beautiful eye!

Love be a rainbow, to brighten thy sky!

Oh! not for sunshine and hope, would I part

With the shade time has flung over all-but thy heart!

Still art thou all which thou wert, when a child,

Only more holy-and only less wild!

THAT SONG, AGAIN!

Chacun croit retrouver, dans la mélodie, comme dans l'astre pur et tranquille de la nuit, l'image de ce qu'il souhaite sur la terre.

Le malheur, dans le langage de la musique, est sans amertume, sans déchirement, sans irritation.

MADAME DE STAEL.

THAT Song again!—its wailing strain
Brings back the thoughts of other hours,-
The forms I ne'er may see again,—

And brightens all life's faded flowers!