I. THE SERENADE.

Light slumber is quitting The eyelids it pressed, The fairies are flitting, Who charmed thee to rest: Where night-dews were falling Now feeds the wild bee, The starling is calling, My Darling, for thee. The wavelets are crisper That sway the shy fern, The leaves fondly whisper, "We wait thy return." Arise then, and hazy Distrust from thee fling, For sorrows that crazy To-morrows may bring. A vague yearning smote us— But wake not to weep, My bark, love, shall float us Across the still deep, To isles where the lotos, Erst lulled thee to sleep.