Illusions.


I.

As down life's morning stream we glide,
Full oft some Flower stoops o'er its side,
And beckons to the smiling shore,
Where roses strew the landscape o'er:
Yet as we reach that Flower to clasp,
It seems to mock the cheated grasp,
And whisper soft, with siren glee,
"My bloom is not--oh not for thee!"


II.

Within Youth's flowery vale I tread,
By some entrancing shadow led--
And Echo to my call replies--
Yet, as she answers, lo, she flies!
And, as I seem to reach her cell--
The grotto, where she weaves her spell--
The Nymph's sweet voice afar I hear--
So Love departs, as we draw near!