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THE EVENING STAR.

EAN from the lattice, lady bright; Trifle no more with the pensive guitarFor the sun in an ebbing ocean of light Is anchored, to wait for the evening star.

And yonder the palace-windows blaze: Such radiant gold from the west they win,That you say, in a sort of pretty amaze, "Surely, there must be a sun within!"

Over your head a rose-vine clings, Deftly the long stems climb and lace;And a full, red bud in the west wind swings, Brushing the rose of your beautiful face.

Lean from the lattice, lady sweet; The wind is blowing the bud apart;And one is coming adown the street, To open to you his princely heart.

But your lips are touched by a scornful smile: "What is he, but a boy?" you say;