HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS.

Oft, when the watching stars grow pale,

And round me sleeps the moonlight scene,

To hear a flute through yonder vale

I from my casement lean.

“Come, come, my love!” each note then seems to say,

“Oh, come, my love! the night wears fast away!”

Never to mortal ear

Could words, tho’ warm they be,

Speak Passion's language half so clear

As do those notes to me!

Then quick my own light lute I seek,

And strike the chords with loudest swell;

And, tho’ they naught to others speak,

He knows their language well.

“I come, my love!” each note then seems to say,

“I come, my love!— thine, thine till break of day.”

Oh, weak the power of words,

The hues of painting dim

Compared to what those simple chords

Then say and paint to him!