A Wreath of Songs

With moonlight beaming
Thus o'er the deep,
Who'd linger dreaming
In idle sleep?
Leave joyless souls to live by day,--
Our life begins with yonder ray;
And while thus brightly
The moments flee,
Our barks skim lightly
The shining sea.

To halls of splendor
Let great ones hie;
Thro' light more tender
Our pathways lie.
While round, from banks of brook or lake,
Our company blithe echoes make;
And as we lend 'em
Sweet word or strain,
Still back they send 'em
More sweet again.

I saw the moon rise clear
O'er hills and vales of snow,
Nor told my fleet reindeer
The track I wish'd to go.

Yet quick he bounded forth,
For well my reindeer knew,
I've but one path, one path on earth,
The path that leads to you!

The gloom that winter cast
How soon the heart forgets
When summer brings, at last,
Her sun that never sets!

So dawn'd my love for you,
So dawn'd my love for you,
So fix'd through joy and pain,
Than summer sun more true,
'Twill never set again.

Oh fair! oh purest! be thou the dove
That flies alone to some sunny grove,
And lives unseen, and bathes her wing,
All vestal white, in the limpid spring.
There, if the hovering hawk be near,
That limpid spring in its mirror clear
Reflects him ere he reach his prey
And warns the timorous bird away,
Be thou this dove;
Fairest, purest, be thou this dove,

The sacred pages of God's own book
Shall be the spring, the eternal brook,
In whose holy mirror, night and day,
Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray; --
And should the foes of virtue dare,
With gloomy wing, to seek thee there,
Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie
Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly!
Be thou that dove;
Fairest, purest, be thou that dove.

Place the helm on thy brow,
In thy hand take the spear;
Thou art arm'd, Cupid, now,
And thy battle-hoar is near.
March on! march on! thy shaft and bow
Were weak against such charms;
March on! march on! so proud a foe
Scorns all but martial arms.

See the darts in her eyes,
Tipt with scorn, how they shine!
Ev'ry shaft, as it flies.
Mocking proudly at thine.
March on! march on! thy feather'd darts
Soft bosoms soon might move;
But ruder arms to ruder hearts
Must teach what 'tis to love.
Place the helm on thy brow;
In thy hand take the spear, --
Thou art arm'd Cupid, now,
And thy battle-hour is near.

"Oh! Abyssinian tree,
We pray, we pray to thee;
By the glow of thy golden fruit,
And the violet hue of thy flower,
And the greeting mute of thy bough's salute
To the stranger who seeks thy bower."

"Oh! Abyssinian tree,
How the traveller blesses thee,
When the night no moon allows,
And the sunset hour is near,
And thou bend'st thy boughs
To kiss his brows.
Saying, 'Come rest thee here,'

Oh! Abyssinian tree,
Thus bow thy head to me."

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