ON AN AIR OF NOVELLO'S-AVE VERUM.

COMES it to thee with a sound of joy,

Glad-hearted sister mine?

Like the reckless bound of the mountain boy,

Or his mirthsome eye divine?

Oh, list again-it has sorrowful deeps,

Thou hast not fathom'd yet;

"Tis a loving passionate heart that weeps
Tears, none who shed forget.

It speaketh of life,-of beautiful life,

A tissue strange and fair,

Yet enwoven with threads of tenderest grief,
And dark shades here and there.

It leads the soul to the twilight sky,

And the stars peep forth in turn,

But a weeping train of clouds is by
To dim them as they burn.

Speaks it of hope? yes, hope in tears,

From some far distant shore ;

Music that steals from the nightly spheres,
Yet sounding, sounds no more.

Watton, 1845.

UNDINE IN MUSIC.

ON THE QUICK MOVEMENT OF MOZART'S SYMPHONY IN E FLAT.

'Twas the twilight dawn at break of day,

And the mists swept over the mountains grey.
Away, away, on thin blue wings,

They flitted across like living things,

Reckless wanderers they.

Is there a path on those towers of air ?—

'Mid ice and cloud a pathway there?

Wild are the rocks and interwoven,

But betwixt them a path is dimly cloven.

Ha! see'st thou aught ?-'tis a waving plume,

And a spear that glances like light through gloom.

'Tis a dashing steed of taintless white:

'Tis a rider's cry—an armed knight.

Now high on the crag; now deep in the mist,

That at fits the plume of his helmet kiss'd:

As when a light-wing'd bark doth ride

At random o'er the foaming tide:

Now perch'd on the top of the mountain wave,

Daring the stars for very glee;

Now hid half-way in the arching cave

Of the glad exultant sea.

Like to the waves are the wild crags strown,
Like to the bark doth the knight ride on.

Is he in chase of the tumbling rills?
What seeketh he on the far-off hills?
There are waves of a rivulet there that stray
At morning o'er the mountains blue;
But when the sun rides high, men say,

It melts like the veriest morning-dew.
Perchance he hath come by that stream to ride:
He reins his steed by a glacier's side.

Was it music? was it a spell?

What on the horse and his rider fell?

For, lo! by the side of a silver rill

The rider and his horse stood still.

'Tis nought but the sound of gushing waves
Like crystal music in hidden caves,
Tinkling so soft and so clear around,

An angel's whisper, a spirit sound :
Yet it woke the dreams of bygone years,

And won from out his eyes the tears:

For in fitful beauty all unabiding

Were the scenes of his childhood before him gliding.

The spell is broken. He starts away,

The wilder now for the brief delay:

Swift hurries the steed, as one might list,

Yet he lashes him on through storm and mist

!

And away away! with might and main,

A playmate of the clouds again.

He curb'd his steed, for he thought he spied

A maiden's robe at his right side.

Is it a maiden beside him lying,

On the far lone mountains in silence dying?
Ah, no, sir knight-'tis the trembling rill,
That having loved thee, loves thee still,