She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines,
Before the fall of night,

For fear the moon should shine-alone,

And stars unrivalled bright;

And blessed will the lover be

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek

I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier,

Who rode so gayly by thy side,

And whispered thee so near!

Were there no bonny dames at home,

Or no true lovers here,

That he should cross the seas to win

The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before:

And gentle youth and maidens gay,

And

snowy plumes they wore; It would have been a beauteous dream,

-If it had been no more!

Alas, alas! fair Ines,

She went away with song,

With music waiting on her steps,
And shoutings of the throng;

But some were sad, and felt no mirth,
But only music's wrong,

In sounds that sang farewell, farewell,
To her you've loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines!
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,
Nor danced so light before,-
Alas for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shore!

The smile that blest one lover's heart

Has broken many more!

THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.
RTURE

SUMMER is gone on swallows' wings,
And earth has buried all her flowers:
No more the lark, the linnet sings,
But silence sits in faded bowers.
There is a shadow on the plain
Of Winter ere he comes again,
There is in woods a solemn sound
Of hollow warnings whispered round,
As Echo in her deep recess

For once had turned a prophetess.
Shuddering Autumn stops to list,
And breathes his fear in sudden sighs,
With clouded face, and hazel eyes
That quench themselves, and hide in mist.

Yes, Summer's gone like pageant bright;

Its glorious days of golden light

Are gone

the mimic suns that quiver,
Then melt in Time's dark-flowing river.
Gone the sweetly-scented breeze
That spoke in music to the trees;
Gone for damp and chilly breath,
As if fresh blown o'er marble seas,
Or newly from the lungs of Death.
Gone its virgin roses' blushes,
Warm as when Aurora rushes
Freshly from the god's embrace,
With all her shame upon her face.
Old Time hath laid them in the mould;
Sure he is blind as well as old,

Whose hand relentless never spares
Young cheeks so beauty-bright as theirs!
Gone are the flame-eyed lovers now
From where so blushing-blest they tarried
Under the hawthorn's blossom-bough,
Gone; for Day and Night are married.
All the light of love is fled:
Alas! that negro breasts should hide
The lips that were so rosy red,
At morning and at even-tide!

Delightful Summer! then adieu
Till thou shalt visit us anew:
But who without regretful sigh
Can say adieu, and see thee fly?
Not he that e'er hath felt thy power,
His joy expanding like a flower
That cometh after rain and snow,
Looks

up

at heaven, and learns to glow:

Not he that fled from Babel-strife
To the green Sabbath-land of life,
To dodge dull Care 'mid clustered trees,
And cool his forehead in the breeze,
Whose spirit, weary-worn perchance,
Shook from its wings a weight of grief,
And perched upon an aspen-leaf,
For every breath to make it dance.

Farewell!. on wings of sombre stain,
That blacken in the last blue skies,
Thou fly'st; but thou wilt come again
On the gay wings of butterflies.
Spring at thy approach will sprout
Her new Corinthian beauties out,
Leaf-woven homes, where twitter-words
Will grow to songs, and eggs to birds;
Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers,
And April smiles to sunny hours.
Bright days shall be, and gentle nights
Full of soft breath and echo-lights,
As if the god of sun-time kept
His eyes half-open while he slept.
Roses shall be where roses were,
Not shadows, but reality;
As if they never perished there,
But slept in immortality:

Nature shall thrill with new delight,

And Time's relumined river run

Warm as young blood, and dazzling bright

As if its source were in the sun!

But say, hath Winter then no charms? Is there no joy, no gladness, warms

His aged heart? no happy wiles
To cheat the hoary one to smiles?
Onward he comes- the cruel North
Pours his furious whirlwind forth

Before him and we breathe the breath

Of famished bears that howl to death.
Onward he comes from rocks that blanch
O'er solid streams that never flow;
His tears all ice, his locks all snow,
Just crept from some huge avalanche -
A thing half-breathing and half-warm,
As if one spark began to glow
Within some statue's marble form,
Or pilgrim stiffened in the storm.
O! will not Mirth's light arrows fail
To pierce that frozen coat of mail?
O! will not joy but strive in vain
To light up those glazed eyes again?

No! take him in, and blaze the oak, And pour the wine, and warm the ale; His sides shall shake to many a joke, His tongue shall thaw in many a tale, His eyes grow bright, his heart be gay, And even his palsy charmed away. What heeds he then the boisterous shout Of angry winds that scold without, Like shrewish wives at tavern door? What heeds he then the wild uproar Of billows bursting on the shore? In dashing waves, in howling breeze, There is a music that can charm him ; When safe, and sheltered, and at ease, He hears the storm that cannot harm him.