LOVE'S FOOTSTEPS.
I sang a song of olden times,
Sitting upon our sacred hill—
Sang it to feel my bosom thrill
To the sweet pathos of its rhymes.
I trilled the music o'er and o'er,
And happy, gazed upon the scene,
Thinking that there had never been
So blue a sea, so fair a shore.
A vague half dream was in my mind;
I hardly saw how sat the sun;
I noted not the day was gone
The rosy western hills behind.
'Till, soft as if Apollo blew
For me the sweet Thessalian flute,
I heard a sound which made me mute,
And more than singing thrilled me through.
Thy step—well known and well beloved!
No more I dreamed on shore or sea;
I thought of, saw but only thee,
Nor spoke, but blushed to be so moved.
THE POET'S MINISTERS.
POET.
Oh, my soul! the draught is bitter
Yet it must be sweetly drunken:
Heart and soul! the grinding fetter
Galls, yet have ye never shrunken:
Heart and soul, and pining spirit,
