To the house and to the garden,

To the mansion of repose, Welcome, Anna, my beloved!

Welcome, Othou blushing rose!'

MOORISH SONG.*

WHILE the cheerful music sounded,
While the careless dance I trod,
They had dug the grave to hide me,
They had plotted for my blood.

Past the garden and the fountain,
Past the path is my abode,
Far, alas! too far, the city;
Murderers are upon the road.

* This song is called 'Under the Trees.' Whether this title is descriptive of the place where the scene is laid, or is the name of the tune, I do not know.

MOORISH SONG.

TELL me, sea of Susa! tell,
If on your banks my love does dwell;
My love, whom well you might have known,
With eyes so dark and eye-brows brown.

'Twas from my window first I spied
My love as past he chanc'd to ride:
In gayest colours was he dress'd,
With crimson trews and yellow vest.

Before my friends, dear youth! I seem
Thy worth but little to esteem;
But in my heart, (could'st thou but see)
I languish, and I die, for thee.

MOORISH SONG.

SHARP as fire's burning smart
Is the pain you give my heart;
But how have you that heart beguild?
And who has taught you so much art?
For you as yet are but a child.

Do not behind the lattice hide,
But let the window open wide,
And cease to play your wanton wiles,
For this is Lent's most solemn tide,*
And still you spread your artful toils.

In the original, 'for this is the month of Ramadan.' TO DELIA.

HAUNT not thus the eye of sleep,

Thou object of my nightly dream! Tinge not with distress more deep

Yon baleful planet's angry gleam.

Nor when day shall rule the sky

Let thy dreaded form be seen; Fly, thou fatal vision, fly,

Be as if thou ne'er had'st been.

And yet--thou art the form belov'd,

Ere grief obscur'd my changeful day; Which many a glow of transport moy'd,

And prompted many a lively lay.

And still I love thee-and for the

Affection's fondest tear is shed; Still beats my heart's quick pulse to see

Thy image hovering round my head.

But if one hope its bloom disclose

'Tis instant nipp'd by grim despair, Who points to nought but future woes,

And tells me I have lost my fair.