To His Muse.

("Puisqu'ici-bas tout me.")     [XL, May 19, 1836.]     Since everything below,     Doth, in this mortal state,     Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow     Communicate;     Since all that lives and moves     Upon the earth, bestows     On what it seeks and what it loves     Its thorn or rose;     Since April to the trees     Gives a bewitching sound,     And sombre night to grief gives ease,     And peace profound;     Since day-spring on the flower     A fresh'ning drop confers,     And the fresh air on branch and bower     Its choristers;     Since the dark wave bestows     A soft caress, imprest     On the green bank to which it goes     Seeking its rest;     I give thee at this hour,     Thus fondly bent o'er thee,     The best of all the things in dow'r     That in me be.     Receive,-poor gift, 'tis true,     Which grief, not joy, endears, -     My thoughts, that like a shower of dew,     Reach thee in tears.     My vows untold receive,     All pure before thee laid;     Receive of all the days I live     The light or shade!     My hours with rapture fill'd,     Which no suspicion wrongs;     And all the blandishments distill'd     From all my songs.     My spirit, whose essay     Flies fearless, wild, and free,     And hath, and seeks, to guide its way     No star but thee.     No pensive, dreamy Muse,     Who, though all else should smile,     Oft as thou weep'st, with thee would choose,     To weep the while.     Oh, sweetest mine! this gift     Receive; - 'tis throe alone; -     My heart, of which there's nothing left     When Love is gone!     Fraser's Magazine.