MAD SONG.

THE wild winds weep,

And the night is a-cold; Come hither, Sleep,

And my griefs unfold!
But lo the Morning peeps
Over the eastern steeps,

And rustling birds of dawn
The earth do scorn.

Lo! to the vault

Of paved heaven,

With sorrow fraught,

My notes are driven : They strike the ear of night, Make weep the eyes of day; They make mad the roaring winds, And with tempests play.

Like a fiend in a cloud,
With howling woe
After night I do crowd,

And with night will go;

I turn my back to the East
Whence comforts have increas'd;

For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.

SONG.

How sweet I roamed from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride,

'Till I the Prince of Love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide!

He show'd me lilies for my hair,

And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May dews my wings were wet, And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net,

And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing,

And mocks my loss of liberty.

SONG.

MEMORY, hither come,

And tune your merry notes; And, while upon the wind

Your music floats,

I'll pore upon the stream

Where sighing lovers dream,

And fish for fancies as they pass

Within the watery glass.

I'll drink of the clear stream,

And hear the linnet's song;

And there I'll lie and dream

The day along :

And, when night comes, I'll go

To places fit for woe;

Walking along the darkened valley

With silent Melancholy.

TO THE MUSES.

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the sun that now
From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,

Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air,

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove

Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove; Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoy'd in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

THOU fair-hair'd angel of the Evening,

Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy brilliant torch of love; thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

Smile on our loves; and whilst thou drawest round
The curtains of the sky, scatter thy dew

On every flower that closes its sweet eyes

In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And then the lion glares through the dun forest.
The fleeces of our flocks are covered with

Thy sacred dew protect them with thine influence.