Spring hath not scattered yet her flowers, But lingers still in southern bowers; No gardener's art hath cherished thee, For wild and lone thou springest free. Thou springest here to man unknown, Waked into life by God alone! Sweet flower--thou tellest well thy birth,-- Thou cam'st from Heaven, though soiled in earth! Illusions. I. As down life's morning stream we glide, Full oft some Flower stoops o'er its side, And beckons to the smiling shore, Where roses strew the landscape o'er: Yet as we reach that Flower to clasp, It seems to mock the cheated grasp, And whisper soft, with siren glee, "My bloom is not--oh not for thee!" II. Within Youth's flowery vale I tread, By some entrancing shadow led-- And Echo to my call replies-- Yet, as she answers, lo, she flies! And, as I seem to reach her cell-- The grotto, where she weaves her spell-- The Nymph's sweet voice afar I hear-- So Love departs, as we draw near! III. Upon a mountain's dizzy height, Ambition's temple gleams with light: Proud forms are moving fair within, And bid us strive that light to win. O'er giddy cliff and crag we strain, And reach the mountain top--in vain! For lo! the temple, still afar, Shines cold and distant as a star. IV. I hear a voice, whose accents dear Melt, like soft music, in mine ear. A gentle hand, that seems divine, Is warmly, fondly clasped in mine; And lips upon my cheeks are pressed, That whisper tones from regions blest: But soon I start--for friendship's kiss Is gone, and lo! a serpent's hiss. V. The sun goes down, and shadows rest On the gay scenes by morning blest; The gathering clouds invest the air-- Yet one bright constant Star is there. Onward we press, with heavy load, O'er tangled path and rough'ning road, For still that Star shines bright before; But now it sinks, and all is o'er! The Rose: to Ellen. [Illustration: The Rose] The sportive sylphs that course the air, Unseen on wings that twilight weaves, Around the opening rose repair, And breathe sweet incense o'er its leaves. With sparkling cups of bubbles made, They catch the ruddy beams of day, And steal the rainbow's sweetest shade, Their blushing favorite to array. They gather gems with sunbeams bright, From floating clouds and falling showers-- They rob Aurora's locks of light To grace their own fair queen of flowers. Thus, thus adorned, the speaking Rose, Becomes a token fit to tell, Of things that words can ne'er disclose, And nought but this reveal so well. Then take my flower, and let its leaves Beside thy heart be cherished near, While that confiding heart receives The thought it whispers to thine ear! The Maniac. [Illustration: The Maniac]