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Not mine the joys of gilded balls,
Their sweets are vain to me;
Sweeter the breath of music falls,
Amid the mountains' airy halls,
For there my form is free;
No fetter'd duties bind my soul,
I spurn their slavish—cold controul,
For Oh! I love to be
A fellow with the desart rock,
That meets unmoved the tempest's shock.

Soul of my soul! for there I meet
Objects, like thee in ruin laid:
Young Fancy, whom I hold most dear,
Leads on my wayward footsteps there,
To rocks in gloom arrayed;
And tells me that I now am free—
These tempest-riven sites for me,
And no one else were made;
These rocks—this firmament divine,
In all their solitude, are mine.

And then I hold myself alone;
No slavish thought can dare
Intrude upon my desart throne,
Or bid me for a moment own,
A lord or rival there;
But every dream, like morning light,
Be pure, fantastical and bright,
Dress'd in such gaudy glare,
That rime shall pause and feel his power,
Subdued even by the desart flower.
TO --- ---

The dreams that in my slumbers glow,
Dear maid, thou well mayst deem,

Derive their source from hopes that now,
Within my bosom teem.
And how can dreams do ought than give,
Imagined joys with thee,
Since waking, all that bids me live,
Are dreams, I hope may be.

In dreaming joys, my nights are spent;
And hopes, dear Love, divide
The hours that gaudy day has sent,
Like sunbeams on the tide.
And these are joys—but ah! too vain,
Since hopes are apt to fly;
And dreams we know will sometimes pain,
When known, reality.

Then would'st thou chasten doubt, and quell
The grief that yet may rise,
Each dream that gives a charm, compel
Thy heart to realize;
And give the spell that ever seems,
To call forth joys ideal;
Let all my early hopes be dreams
But let those dreams be real.

INVOCATION.
By Almirez.

Come, o'er the waste of water's blue,
The Memory of other years;
Come, and recall my infant view—
My early joys and tears.
Shadows of former times—again
With icy lip, and sunken eye,
And pallid brow, and rattling brain,
Ye wander sadly by.
I'll wake a harp of former tone,
Again a being shall ye dream;
And all that once ye deem'd your own,
Shall either be—or seem.
Sorrows—the shades of former years,
Joys—that ye thought could never fly.
Each in the visioned scene appears,
To pain or please the eye.
And whilst ye wander o'er the hours,
That wizard fancy waken yet;
Beware! ye rove in other bowers—
The present, ye have never met.
The present! lo! his form is here,
There's sadness in his very smile;
A mingled tint of hope and fear,
That cannot grief beguile:
A frozen image that seems fix'd,
In death's embrace with smiling lips,
Whilst light and darkness there is mix'd,
Like Phoebus in a brief eclipse.

[Untitled]
Come! Let thy hair my fingers twine,
That rosy lip be laid on mine,
That eye so soft, so purely bright,
Upon me rest its azure light.

Those arms of snow, ah could I dare,
I'd have thee softly throw them there,
And ah! so kind; so gentle too,
Thou'st done what I would have thee do.

Those lips—forgive me if I press,
They were but formed such hours to bless;
Come let those arms around me twine,
That throbbing heart be laid on mine.

That head, reclined upon my breast,
Thus—thus I'll lull thee Love, to rest,
And reigning o'er my bosom's throne,
Now Rosa, thou art all my own.

Thy brow upon my heart is laid,
Thy lips are mine, my own dear maid,
My daring hand hath wreathed thy hair—
Live Rosa, live forever there.

BY ALMIREZ.

Go, shed the lustre of thine eyes,
On other lands, remote from this;
And ere their starry brillance dies,
Perchance they yet may lead to bliss,
But here the charm thou would'st impart,
Lacks lustre, for it lacks the heart.

And other dreams may wake thy truth,
And other beauties lure to love;
Then may'st thou whilst in prime of
youth,
Learn those wild passions to reprove;
Which cannot lure, and will not die,
But pain in deep intensity.

Another land—another hope,
May with thy former feelings strive,
And, whilst they each for being cope,
Still whisper to us that they live;
But oh! be mine—the genial sky,
The love, the heart that will not fly.

DITHYRAMBIC SONG.

Fill up the bowl, for why should sorrow,
Dim a cup so purely bright;
Fill up, and think not on the morrow,
Come sun or cloud—be blest to night.

Now the ruby Juices flowing,
Wit is casting pleasures o'er,
Love's arrows set the Goblets glowing,
Die away and are no more.

Then in wine forget the hour,
Love could charm thy soul away,
Passion with resistless power,
Bids the force of love decay.

Cupid angry, lost his glances,
Peep'd within the door and frownd;
Wit turn'd round, checked his advances;
Loves arrow blunted met the ground.

Fill up the bowl, Time's wings are moving,
Fill up the bowl arrest his flight;
O, that we could such joys improving,
Change the day and make it night.

TO SPAIN.

Go weep, go weep—yet not the tear,
That from each patriot bosom springs,
To Freedom's shrine is half so dear—
As those of tyrant kings.

'Tis well, 'tis well—ye yet can weep,
If stings of shame ye feel,
Go burst the torpid charms of sleep,
And rush to meet the steel.

It is not tears, it is not tears,
Tho' deep the fountains flow,
That now can wake a nations fears—
And rouse them to the blow.

But 'tis the heart, that dares to do,
And 'tis the arm that does the deed,
One soul of fire, one falchion true,
And ye might yet be freed.

SONG.

Wake, wake, the song! the tyrant care
Shall fly e're we shall leave the bowl,
Whilst peace and joy shall hover near
In all the unity of soul.
Wake, wake, the song.

Tho' distant regions here unite,
Like brothers of one land they join,
The cup is sparkling ruby bright,
And freedom's nectar is divine.
Wake, wake, the song, &c.

Here shall no foreign despot wave,
His sceptre o'er the free born mind,
Or, may the foe who such can brave,
The vengeance of a Free-man find.
Wake, wake, the song, &c.

Wake, wake, the song, in freedom's land,
A Freeman's song, must needs be dear,
Unclogg'd by slavery's iron band—
Undim'd by slavery's burning tear.
Wake, wake, the song, &c.

Here, torn from every genial tie,
The exile seeks no more to roam,
He meets a smile in freedom's eye—
A solace in a Freeman's home.
Wake, wake, the song, &c.

THE BLIGHTED TREES.
By Almirez.

It was but late I sported young,
With youth and friendship 'neath these trees,
The birds around me sweetly sung,
In strains that youthful hearts can please.
So green and fresh they bloomed around,
That youthful fancy kissed each flower—
Alas! tho' bright—they quickly found,
The general gift of nature's dower.

When friends and boyhood pass'd away,
I shed the burning tear of grief,
But I have felt my heart decay,
More, when I've seen your wither'd leaf.
For ye recall those early hours,
When joy had lent to youth its ray;
When with some school mate plucking flow'rs,
We've wil'd unheeded, Time away.

Ah! little in those dreams of bliss,
My bosom thought on future scenes;
'Twas pass'd away in happiness,
Devising youthful frolic schemes.
And 'neath these yellow drooping trees,
Then bright with life and deep with green,
I've lain in youthful hours at ease,
Panting, fatigued upon the plain.

Each sound, each murmur then seem'd sweet,
Some nightingale the boughs beneath;
But now those sounds, those murmurs beat,
Just like the tempest storms of death.
Sweet trees, tho' faded still so dear,
Some short time and I too shall fade;
Like ye—my heart's already sear,
By sorrows frost, like ye decay'd.

SONG
Written on the Tombeckbee River.

Long, long, dearest maiden my footsteps
may wander,
And find not a resting place ere they return;
Yet still o'er the past shall my musing heart
ponder,
And bury each feeling in memory's urn.

The stream I now float on, the dark trees
o'er shading,
Still recall to my bosom those moments of bliss;
When o'er my rapt vision the guileless
young maiden,
Shed her first ray, 'twas pensive 'twas lovely
as this.

Oh! deem not the youth, all those feelings
despising,
Forgetful can dream of another than thee;
His bosom but blest when thine own it is
prizing,
Only longs for the moment when thine it
shall see.

Thro' the copse dimly seen the pale
moonbeam is streaming,
O'er the water it mirrors its tremulous glow;
And thus thro' my heart thy deep influence
is gleaming,
With a smile that, tho' pensive, still kindles
its flow.

Could I task but the winds, and obedience
awaken,
In aught that opposes my flight love to thee;
How soon would I prove that thou wert
not forsaken,
Nor forgot for a moment by a lover like me.

They tell me, and let them, it never can kindle,
One doubt of the truth that thy young
heart hath sworn;
That in absence, the influence of feeling must
dwindle,
And love be forgotten before his return.

But they know not who say it, how tender
thy bosom,
Nor the truth that dictates it and rules with
its sway;
But judge that in others the original blossom,
As that in their breast will as quickly decay.