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I am never merry when I hear sweet music.




Oh! joyously, triumphantly, sweet sounds! ye swell

and float, A breath of hope, of youth, of spring, is pour'd on

every note; And yet my full o'erburthen'd heart grows troubled by

your power, And ye seem to press the long past years into one little If I have look'd on lovely scenes, that now I view no A summer sea, with glittering ships, along the moun tain shore,

[ing sky,– A ruin, girt with solemn woods, and a crimson evenYe bring me back those images fast as ye wander by. If in the happy walks and days of childhood I have

heard, And into childhood's memory link'd the musicofa bird; A bird that with the primrose came, and in the violet's

train,Ye give me that wild melody of early life again. Or if a dear and gentle voice, that now is chauged, or

gone, Hath left within my bosom deep the thrilling of its tone, I find that murmur in your notes—they touch the

chords of thought, And a sudden flow of tenderness across my soul is


If I have bid a spot farewell, on whose familiar ground To every path, and leaf, and flower, my soul in love

was bound: If I have watch'd the parting step of one who came

not back, The feeling of that moment wakes in your exulting


Yet on ye float !-the very air seems kindling with

your glee!

Oh! do ye filing this mournful spell, sweet sounds!

alone on me? Or, have a thousand hearts replied, as mine doth now,

in sighs, To the glad music breathing thus of blue Italian skies? I know not !-only this I know, that not by me on

earth, May the deep joy of song be found, untroubled in its

birth; It must be for a brighter life, for some immortal

sphere, Wherein its flow shall have no taste of the bitter foun

tains here.



I fill this

cup to one made up of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon; To whom the better elements and kindly stars have

given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than



24 Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning

birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in her

words; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips

each flows As one may see the burthen'd bee forth issue from the


Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her

hours; Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of

young flowers; And lonely passions changing oft, so fill her, she

appears The image of themselves by turns—the idol of past


Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on

the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long

remain; But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's,

but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon-
Her health ! and would on earth there stood some

more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

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They flash, where the waters

The white pebbles lave,
In the wake of the moon,

As it crosses the wave.

Bounding from billow

To billow, the boat
Like a wild swan is seen,

On the waters to float;
And the light dipping oars

Bear it smoothly along
In time to the air

Of the Gondolier's song.

And high on the stern

Stands the young and the brave,
As love-led he crosses

The star-spangled wave,
And blends with the murmur

Of water and grove
The tones of the night,

That are sacred to love.

His gold-hilted sword

At his bright belt is hung,
His mantle of silk

On his shoulder is flung,
And high waves the feather,

That dances and plays
On his cap where the buckle

And rosary blaze.

The maid from her lattice

Looks down on the lake,
To see the foam sparkle,

The bright billow break,

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