Works

Good night, love!
May Heaven's brightest stars watch over thee!
Good angels spread their wings, and cover thee,
And through the night,
So dark and still,
Spirits of light
Charm thee from ill!...

It is the dawn! the rosy day awakes;
From her bright hair pale showers of dew she shakes,
And through the heavens her early pathway takes;
Why art thou sleeping?
...

'Tis only the nightingale's warbled strain,
That floats through the evening sky:
With his note of love, he replies again,
To the muezzin's holy cry;
As it sweetly sounds on the rosy air,...

Oh child! who to this evil world art come,
Led by the unseen hand of Him who guards thee,
Welcome unto this dungeon-house, thy home!
Welcome to all the woe this life awards thee!
...

Flower of the mountain! by the wanderer's hand
Robbed of thy beauty's short-lived sunny day;
Didst thou but blow to gem the stranger's way,
And bloom, to wither in the stranger's land?...

Yet once again, but once, before we sever,
Fill we one brimming cup, - it is the last!
And let those lips, now parting, and for ever,
Breathe o'er this pledge, "the memory of the past!"
...

'Twas but a dream! and oh! what are they all,
All the fond visions Hope's bright finger traces,
All the fond visions Time's dark wing effaces,
But very dreams! but morning buds, that fall...

Mother, mother! my heart is wild,
Hold me upon your bosom dear,
Do not frown on your own poor child,
Death is darkly drawing near.

Mother, mother! the bitter shame
Eats into my very soul;...

Oh let it be where the waters are meeting,
In one crystal sheet, like the summer's sky bright!
Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating,
May throw the last glance of his vanishing light....

Thou little star, that in the purple clouds
Hang'st, like a dew-drop, in a violet bed;
First gem of evening, glittering on the shrouds,
'Mid whose dark folds the day lies pale and dead:...

Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;
Youngest and fairest of the four, who guide
Our mortal year along Time's rapid tide.
Spirit of life! the old decrepid earth...

A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,
Full of eternal constancy and faith,
And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs
Truth's holy voice, with ev'ry balmy breath;...

Were they but dreams? Upon the darkening world
Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled,
On which the day soared to the sunny west:
The moon sits calmly, like a soul at rest,...