YE stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires,-'tis to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,

Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create

In us such love and reverence from afar,

That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

LOVE

YES! Love, indeed, is light from Heaven,
A spark of that immortal fire-
With angels shared-by Allah given

To lift from Earth our low desire.
Devotion wafts the mind above,
But Heaven itself descends in Love;
A feeling from the Godhead caught,
To wean from self each sordid thought;
A ray of Him who formed the whole,
A glory circling round the soul !

'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel
We once have lov'd, though love is at an end:
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend.
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,

Death hath but little left him to destroy !

Ah! happy years! once more, who would not be a boy?

WHAT is the worst of woes that wait on age?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each lov'd one blotted from life's page,
And be alone on earth, as I am now.

From Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

OH! ever loving, lovely, and belov'd!
How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past,
And clings to thoughts now better far remov'd!
But time shall tear thy shadow from me last.

All thou could'st have of mine, stern Death! thou hast ;
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend:
Ne'er yet for one, thine arrows flew so fast,
And grief with grief continuing still to blend,

Hath snatch'd the little joy, that life had yet to lend.