SERENADE.

Sweet maiden, awake

From the region of sleep,

Alone for thy sake

Here my vigil I keep;

The moon rides on high,

The stars shine above,

Yet sleepless am I

By the charm of thy love.

All nature reposes:

The sun is at rest,

Fast shut are the roses,

Each bird in its nest;

The air is unstirred

By the drone of the bee,

Safe penned is each herd—

And my thoughts are of thee.

Oh, what is dull Time

In true love’s estimation?

Who measures each chime,

In its rapt contemplation?

Immortal in birth,

It descends from above,

And raises from earth

The frail creatures who love.

Oh, spurn me not, maiden!

Dismiss me not home,

With misery laden

Henceforward to roam;

By the spell of thy power,

Which has fettered the free,

Creation’s sweet flower,

Bend thy fragrance to me!

Albert E. Stembridge.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.