TO A. B. B.
Thou art, fair maid, the Morning Star,
The guide of dawning day,
And sendest diamond sparkles far
To wake the flowers of May.
Thou makest earth to bloom anew,
A boon thou'rt wont to give,
And spillest out the morning dew,
That all may blush and live.
Thou guardest with thy hand of might,
And never showeth frown;
Earth lullest sleep when cometh night,
And wak'st her with the dawn.
Fair maiden, God hast given thee
All power near and far,—
The rosy dawning's light to be,
The brightest Morning Star.
TO ESTELLE
Coy, sweet maid, I love so well,
Fair Estelle.
How much I love thee tongue can't tell,
Sweet Estelle.
But I love thee—love thee true—
More than violets love the dew,
More than roses love the sun—
Do I love thee, dearest one,
Dear Estelle!
Ah! my heart love's passions swell
For Estelle!
How I love my actions tell
Thee, Estelle:
That I love thy smiling face,
And thy captivating grace—
Love thy dreamy 'witching eyes
More than planets love the skies,
Wee Estelle!
Now I smite my lyre to swell
For Estelle;
Music's most entrancing spell
O'er Estelle.
With my fingers on my keys,
Like the balmy morning breeze
Stealing softly through the grain,
Will I gently wake a strain
For Estelle!