And sung the long-lost measure o’er,—
Each note and word, with every tone
And look, that lent it life before, —
All perfect, all again my own!

Like parted souls, when, mid the Blest
They meet again, each widow'd sound
Through memory's realm had wing'd in quest
Of its sweet mate, till all were found.

Nor ev'n in waking did the clue,

Thus strangely caught, escape again; For never lark its matins knew

So well as now I knew this strain.

And oft, when memory's wondrous spell
Is talk'd of in our tranquil bower,

I sing this lady's song, and tell

The vision of that morning hour.

SONG.

WHERE is the heart that would not give Years of drowsy days and nights,

One little hour, like this, to liveFull, to the brim, of life's delights?

Look, look around,

This fairy ground,

With love-lights glittering o'er;

While cups that shine

With freight divine

Go coasting round its shore.

Hope is the dupe of future hours,

Memory lives in those gone by; Neither can see the moment's flowers Springing up fresh beneath the eye. Wouldst thou, or thou,

Forego what's now,

For all that Hope may say?

No-Joy's reply,

From every eye,

Is, "Live we while we may."

SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.

Haud curat Hippoclides.

ERASM. Adag.

To those we love we've drank to-night;

But now attend, and stare not,
While I the ampler list recite

Of those for whom WE CARE NOT.

For royal men, howe'er they frown,
If on their fronts they bear not
That noblest gem that decks a crown,
The People's Love-WE CAREe not.

For slavish men, who bend beneath
A despot yoke, yet dare not
Pronounce the will, whose very breath

Would rend its links-WE CARE NOT.

For priestly men, who covet sway

And wealth, though they declare not; Who point, like finger-posts, the way

They never go-We care not.

For martial men, who on their sword,
Howe'er it conquers, wear not
The pledges of a soldier's word,
Redeem'd and pure-WE CARE not.

For legal men, who plead for wrong,
And, though to lies they swear not,
Are hardly better than the throng

Of those who do-WE CARE NOT.

For courtly men, who feed upon

The land, like grubs, and spare not The smallest leaf, where they can sun Their crawling limbs-WE CAre not.

For wealthy men, who keep their mines
In darkness hid, and share not
The paltry ore with him who pines

In honest want-WE CARE NOT.

For prudent men, who hold the power

Of Love aloof, and bare not

Their hearts in any guardless hour
To Beauty's shaft-WE CARE Not.

For all, in short, on land or sea,

In camp or court, who are not,

Who never were, or e'er will be

Good men and true-WE CARE NOT.