Autumn

The Autumn skies are flush'd with gold, And fair and bright the rivers run; These are but streams of winter cold, And painted mists that quench the sun.

In secret boughs no sweet birds sing, In secret boughs no bird can shroud; These are but leaves that take to wing, And wintry winds that pipe so loud.

'Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms That on the cheerless valleys fall, The flowers are in their grassy tombs, And tears of dew are on them all.

BALLAD.

Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse And Beauty's fairest queen, Though 'tis not for my peasant lips To soil her name between: A king might lay his sceptre down, But I am poor and nought, The brow should wear a golden crown That wears her in its thought.

The diamonds glancing in her hair, Whose sudden beams surprise, Might bid such humble hopes beware The glancing of her eyes; Yet looking once, I look'd too long, And if my love is sin, Death follows on the heels of wrong, And kills the crime within.

Her dress seem'd wove of lily leaves, It was so pure and fine, O lofty wears, and lowly weaves,-- But hodden-gray is mine; And homely hose must step apart, Where garter'd princes stand, But may he wear my love at heart That wins her lily hand!

Alas! there's far from russet frieze To silks and satin gowns, But I doubt if God made like degrees In courtly hearts and clowns. My father wrong'd a maiden's mirth, And brought her cheeks to blame, And all that's lordly of my birth Is my reproach and shame!

'Tis vain to weep,--'tis vain to sigh, 'Tis vain, this idle speech, For where her happy pearls do lie, My tears may never reach; Yet when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride May say, of what has been, His love was nobly born and died, Though all the rest was mean!

My speech is rude,--but speech is weak Such love as mine to tell, Yet had I words, I dare not speak, So, Lady, fare thee well; I will not wish thy better state Was one of low degree, But I must weep that partial fate Made such a churl of me.

THE EXILE.

The swallow with summer Will wing o'er the seas, The wind that I sigh to Will visit thy trees. The ship that it hastens Thy ports will contain, But me!--I must never See England again!

There's many that weep there, But one weeps alone, For the tears that are falling So far from her own; So far from thy own, love, We know not our pain; If death is between us, Or only the main.

When the white cloud reclines On the verge of the sea, I fancy the white cliffs, And dream upon thee; But the cloud spreads its wings To the blue heav'n and flies. We never shall meet, love, Except in the skies!