One evening, as we floated on the calm, And not a sound was heard afar or near, Save oary music mingling firm and clear, With thy soft rippling psalm,-- V. Then, all at once, sweet tones, too sweet for earth, Awoke the sleeping echoes into bliss, The waves grew hushed, the voice I loved gave birth To such a strain as this: 1. “O Time, suspend thy flight, and happy hours, Linger upon your ways! Oh! let us know the fleeting joy that’s ours These brightest of our days! 2. For the unhappy ones who thee implore, Flow swiftly as thou canst, With all their cares; but leave us, pass us o’er In happiness entranced! 3. Alas! in vain I ask some moments more, For Time escapes and flies! I ask this night to linger; lo, the power Of darkness quickly dies! 4. But let us love, and, while we may, be blest, Before our hour is gone! Nor time, nor man has any point of rest, _It_ flows, and _we_ float on!” VI. O jealous Time! those moments of delight, When Love pours bliss in streams upon the heart, Must they fly from us with as swift a flight As days of ill depart? VII. Alas! can we not even mark the track? _Forever lost!_ like all that went before! And Time that gave them and then took them back Shall give them back no more! VIII. O Lake, mute rocks and caves and forest shade, Whose beauty Time is powerless to blight, Dear nature, suffer not the thought to fade Of that sweet, happy night! IX. Still let it live in all thy scene, fair Lake, In calm and storm, and make thy smiles more bright, And every tree and rock new meaning take From that sweet, happy night. X. Let it be heard in every passing breeze, And in the sound of shore to shore replying, Let it be seen in every star that sees Its image in thee lying! XI. And let the moaning wind and sighing reed, And the light perfume of the balmy air, All that is heard or seen or felt declare, “_They loved--they loved, indeed_!” THE WANDERING JEW. (_From Beranger._) I. Christian, a pilgrim craves from you A glass of water at your door! I am--I am--the Wandering Jew-- Chained to a whirlwind evermore! Though ever young, weighed down with years, The end of Time my one glad dream; Each night I hope the end appears, Each morning brings its cursed gleam. Never, never, Till this earth its race has run, Shall my goal of death be won. II.