THE SERENADE.

If slumber, sweet Lisena!

Have stolen o'er thine eyes,

As night steals o'er the glory

Of spring's transparent skies;

Wake, in thy scorn and beauty,

And listen to the strain

That murmurs my devotion,

That mourns for thy disdain.

Here by thy door at midnight,

I pass the dreary hour,

With plaintive sounds profaning

The silence of thy bower;

A tale of sorrow cherished

Too fondly to depart,

Of wrong from love the flatterer,

And my own wayward heart.

Twice, o'er this vale, the seasons

Have brought and borne away

The January tempest,

The genial wind of May;

Yet still my plaint is uttered,

My tears and sighs are given

To earth's unconscious waters,

And wandering winds of heaven.

I saw from this fair region,

The smile of summer pass,

And myriad frost-stars glitter

Among the russet grass.

While winter seized the streamlets

That fled along the ground,

And fast in chains of crystal

The truant murmurers bound.

I saw that to the forest

The nightingales had flown,

And every sweet-voiced fountain

Had hushed its silver tone.

The maniac winds, divorcing

The turtle from his mate,

Raved through the leafy beeches,

And left them desolate.

Now May, with life and music,

The blooming valley fills,

And rears her flowery arches

For all the little rills.

The minstrel bird of evening

Comes back on joyous wings,

And, like the harp's soft murmur,

Is heard the gush of springs.

And deep within the forest

Are wedded turtles seen,

Their nuptial chambers seeking,

Their chambers close and green.

The rugged trees are mingling

Their flowery sprays in love;

The ivy climbs the laurel,

To clasp the boughs above.

They change — but thou, Lisena,

Art cold while I complain:

Why to thy lover only

Should spring return in vain?