THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE.

(A BUFFO SONG.)

THERE'S Something strange, I know not what, Come o'er me,

Some phantom I've for ever got

Before me.

I look on high, and in the sky

'Tis shining;

On earth, its light with all things bright
Seems twining.

In vain I try this goblin's spells

To sever;

Go where I will, it round me dwells

For ever.

And then what tricks by day and night
It plays me

In ev'ry shape the wicked sprite

Waylays me.

Sometimes like two bright eyes of blue

'Tis glancing;

Sometimes like feet, in slippers neat,

Comes dancing.

By whispers round of every sort

I'm taunted.

Never was mortal man, in short,
So haunted.

NOT FROM THEE.

NOT from thee the wound should come, No, not from thee.

I care not what or whence my doom,

So not from thee!

Cold triumph! first to make

This heart thy own;

And then the mirror break

Where fix'd thou shin'st alone.

Nor from thee the wound should come,

Oh, not from thee.

I care not what, or whence, my doom, So not from thee.

Yet no my lips that wish recall;
From thee, from thee-

If ruin o'er this head must fall,

'Twill welcome be.

Here to the blade I bare

This faithful heart;

Wound deep thou'lt find that there,

In every pulse thou art.

Yes from thee I'll bear it all:

If ruin be

The doom that o'er this heart must fall,

'Twere sweet from thee.

GUESS, GUESS.

I LOVE a maid, a mystic maid,

Whose form no eyes but mine can see; She comes in light, she comes in shade, And beautiful in both is she,

Her shape in dreams I oft behold,
And oft she whispers in my ear

Such words as when to others told,
Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;

Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow,

Come o'er me in my darkest ways; And feel as if her voice, ev'n now, Were echoing far off my lays. There is no scene of joy or woe

But she doth gild with influence bright;