THE INDIAN SERENADE.

I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright:

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Hath led me — who knows how?

To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark, the silent stream —

The Champak odours fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;

The nightingale's complaint,

It dies upon her heart;—

As I must on thine,

Oh, beloved as thou art!

Oh lift me from the grass!

I die! I faint! I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats loud and fast;—

Oh! press it to thine own again,

Where it will break at last.