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THE SERENADE.
'Tis midnight, and there is a world of stars
Hanging in the blue heaven, bright and clear,
And shining, as if they were only made
To sparkle in the mirror of the lake,
And light up flower-gardens and green groves.
By yonder lattice, where the thick vine-leaves
Are canopy and curtain, set with gems
Rich in the autumn's gift of ruby grapes,
A maiden leans:—it is a lovely night,
But, lovely as it is, the hour is late
For beauty's vigil, and to that pale cheek
Sleep might give back the roses watching steals.
Slumber, and happy slumber, such as waits
On youth, and hope, and innocence, was made
To close those soft blue eyes. What can they know
Of this world's sorrow, strife, and anxiousness?
What can Wealth be to the young mind that has
A mine of treasure in its own fresh feelings?
And Fame, oh woman! has no part in it; and Hate,
Those sweet lips cannot know it; and Remorse,
That waits on guilt,—and Guilt has set no sign
