And, while a balmy sigh he stole,
Exhaling from the infant's soul,
lle smiling said, « With this, with this
I'll scent my Julia's burning kiss!»

Nay, more; he stole to Venus' bed,
Ere
yet the sanguine flush had fled,
Which Love's divinest, dearest flame
Had kindled through her panting frame.
Her soul still dwelt on memory's themes,
Still floated in voluptuous dreams;
And every joy she felt before

In slumber now was acting o'er.
From her ripe lips, which seem'd to thrill
As in the war of kisses still,
And amorous to each other clung,
Ile stole the dew that trembling hung,
And smiling said, « With this, with this
I'll bathe my Julia's burning kiss!»

TO

REMEMBER him thou leavest behind, Whose heart is warmly bound to thee, Close as the tenderest links can bind

A heart as warm as heart can be.

Oh! I had long in freedom roved,
Though many seem'd my soul to share;
'T was passion when I thought I loved,
T was fancy when I thought them fair.

Een she, my Muse's early theme,

Beguiled me only while she warm'd; "T was young desire that fed the dream, And reason broke what passion form'd.

But thou-ah! better had it been
If I had still in freedom roved,

If I had ne'er thy beauties seen,

For then I never should have loved!

Then all the pain which lovers feel
Had never to my heart been known;
But, ah! the joys which lovers steal,
Should they have ever been
my own?

Oh! trust me, when I swear thee this,
Dearest! the pain of loving thee,
The very pain, is sweeter bliss
Than passion's wildest ecstasy !

That little cage I would not part,
In which my soul is prison'd now,
For the most light and winged heart
That wantons on the passing vow.

Still, my beloved ! still keep in mind,

However far removed from me, That there is one thou leavest behind Whose heart respires for only thee!

And, though ungenial ties have bound
Thy fate unto another's care,
That arm, which clasps thy bosom round,
Cannot confine the heart that's there.

No, no! that heart is only mine,

By ties all other ties above,

For I have wed it at a shrine

Where we have had no priest but Love!

SONG.

FLY from the world, O Bessy! to me,
Thou 'It never find any sincerer;
I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee,
I can never meet any that 's dearer!
Then tell me no more, with a tear and a sigh,
That our loves will be censured by many;
All, all have their follies, and who will deny
That ours is the sweetest of any?

When your lip has met mine, in abandonment sweet,
Have we felt as if virtue forbid it?-

Have we felt as if Heaven denied them to meet?-
No, rather 't was Heaven that did it!

So innocent, love! is the pleasure we sip,
So little of guilt is there in it,

That I wish all my errors were lodged on your lip,
And I'd kiss them away in a minute!

Then come to your lover, oh! fly to his shed,
From a world which I know thou despisest;
And slumber will hover as light on our bed,
As e'er on the couch of the wisest!
And when o'er our pillow the tempest is driven,
And thou, pretty innocent! fearest,

I'll tell thee, it is not the chiding of Heaven,
'T is only our lullaby, dearest !

When Death shall envy joy like this,

And come to shade our sunny weather, Be our last sigh the sigh of bliss,

And both our souls exhaled together!

THE CATALOGUE.

COME, tell me,» says Rosa, as, kissing and kiss'd,
One day she reclined on my breast;

« Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list
Of the nymphs you have loved and caress'd.»—
Oh, Rosa! 't was only my fancy that roved,
My heart at the moment was free;
But I'll tell thee, my girl, how many I've loved,
And the number shall finish with thee!

My tutor was Kitty; in infancy wild

She taught me the way to be blest;

She taught me to love her, I loved like a child,
But Kitty could fancy the rest.
This lesson of dear and enrapturing lore
I have never forgot, I allow;

I have had it by rote very often before,
But never by heart until now!

Pretty Martha was next, and my soul was all flame,
But my head was so full of romance,
That I fancied her into some chivalry dame,
And I was her knight of the lance!
But Martha was not of this fanciful school,

And she laugh'd at her poor little knight;
While I thought her a goddess, she thought me a fool,
And I'll swear she was most in the right.

My soul was now calm, till, by Cloris's looks, Again I was tempted to rove;

But Cloris, I found, was so learned in books,
That she gave me more logic than love!

So I left this young Sappho, and hasten'd to fly
To those sweeter logicians in bliss,
Who argue the point with a soul-telling eye,
And convince us at once with a kiss!

Oh! Susan was then all the world unto me,
But Susan was piously given;

And the worst of it was, we could never agree
On the road that was shortest to heaven!
«Oh, Susan!» I've said, in the moments of mirth,
« What's devotion to thee or to me?

I devoutly believe there's a heaven on earth,
And believe that that heaven 's in thee!»

How oft I've languish'd by thy side,
And while my heart's luxuriant tide
Ran in wild riot through my veins,
I've waked such sweetly-maddening strains,
As if by inspiration's fire

My soul was blended with my lyre!
Oh! while in every fainting note
We heard the soul of passion float;
While in thy blue dissolving glance,
I've raptured read thy bosom's trance,
I've sung and trembled, kiss'd and sung;
Till, as we mingle breath with breath,
Thy burning kisses parch my tongue,
My hands drop listless on the lyre,
And, murmuring like a swan in death,
Upon thy Losom I expire!

Yes, I indeed remember well
Those hours of pleasure past and o'er;
Why have I lived their sweets to tell?
To tell, but never feel them more!

I should have died, have sweetly died,
In one of those impassion'd dreams,
When languid, silent on thy breast,
Drinking thine eyes' delicious beams,
My soul has flutter'd from its nest,
And on thy lip just parting sigh'd!
Oh! dying thus a death of love,
To heaven how dearly should I go!
He well might hope for joys above,
Who had begun them here below!

SONG.

WHERE is the nymph, whose azure eye Can shine through rapture's tear? The sun has sunk, the moon is high, And yet she comes not here!

Was that her footstep on the hill—
Her voice upon the gale?—
No: t was the wind, and all is still
Oh, maid of Marlivale!

Come to me, love, I've wander'd far, 'Tis past the promised hour : Come to me, love, the twilight star Shall guide thee to my bower.

A FRAGMENT. TO

T IS night, the spectred hour is nigh!
Pensive I hear the moaning blast
Passing, with sad sepulchral sigh,
My lyre that hangs neglected by,

And seems to mourn for pleasures past!
That lyre was once attuned for thee
To many a lay of fond delight,
When all thy days were given to me,
And mine was every blissful night.

SONG.

WHEN Time, who steals our years away,
Shall steal our pleasures too,
The memory of the past will stay,
And half our joys renew.

Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower Shall feel the wintry air, Remembrance will recal the hour When thou alone wert fair!

Then talk no more of future gloom;
Our joys shall always last;
For hope shall brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past.

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,

I drink to love and thee: Thou never canst decay in soul, for me.

Thou 'It still be young

And, as thy lips the tear-drop chase
Which on my cheek they find,

So hope shall steal
the trace
away
Which sorrow leaves behind!

Then fill the bowl-away with gloom!
Our joys shall always last ;
For hope shall brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past!

But mark, at thought of future years
When love shall lose its soul;
My Chloe drops her timid tears,
They mingle with my bowl!

How like this bowl of wine, my fair,

Our loving life shall fleet; Though tears may sometimes mingle there, The draught will still be sweet!

Then fill the bowl-away with gloom!
Our joys shall always last;
For hope will brighten days to come,
And memory gild the past!

THE SHRINE.

My fates had destined me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lured my pious steps to stay;
For, if the saint was young and fair,
I turn'd and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require:
To pass, nor tell a single bead,

With them would be profane indeed!
But, trust me, all this young devotion,
Was but to keep my zeal in motion;
And, every humbler altar past,

I now have reach'd THE SHRINE at last!

REUBEN AND ROSE.

A TALE OF ROMANCE.

THE darkness which hung upon Willumberg's walls Has long been remember'd with awe and dismay! For years not a sunbeam had play'd in its halls,

And it seem'd as shut out from the regions of day:

Though the valleys were brighten'd by many a beam,
Yet none could the woods of the castle illume;
And the lightning which flash'd on the neighbouring

stream

Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom! «Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse ?» Said Willumberg's lord to the seer of the cave;<< It can never dispel,» said the wizard of verse, «Till the bright star of chivalry's sunk in the wave!»

I should be sorry to think that my friend had any serious intentions of frightening the nursery by this story: I rather hope—though the manner of it leads me to doubt-that his design was to ridicule that distempered taste which prefers those monsters of the fancy to the speciosa miracula of true poetic imagination.

I had, by a note in the manuscript, that he met with this story in a German author, FROMMAN upon Fascination, book ííi, part. vi, chap. 18. On consulting the work, I perceive that Fromman quotes it from Beluacensis, among many other stories equally diabolical and interesting.-E.

Upon its marble finger then
He tried the ring to fit;
And, thinking it was safest there,
Thereon he fasten'd it.

And now the tennis sports went on,
Till they were wearied all,
And messengers announced to them
Their dinner in the hall.

Young Rupert for his wedding-ring
Unto the statue went;

But, oh! how was he shock'd to find
The marble finger bent!

The hand was closed upon the ring
With firm and mighty clasp;
In vain he tried, and tried, and tried,
He could not loose the grasp!

How sore surprised was Rupert's mind,—
As well his mind might be;

« I'll come,» quoth he, «at night again, When none are here to see.»

He went unto the feast, and much
He thought upon his ring;

And much he wonder'd what could mean

So very strange a thing!

The feast was o'er, and to the court
He went without delay,
Resolved to break the marble hand,
And force the ring away!

But mark a stranger wonder still-
The ring was there no more;
Yet was the marble hand ungrasp'd,
And
open as before!

He search'd the base, and all the court,
And nothing could he find,

But to the castle did return

With sore bewilder'd mind.

Within he found them all in mirth,

The night in dancing flew;

The youth another ring procured, And none the adventure knew.

And now the priest has join'd their hands, The hours of love advauce!

Rupert almost forgets to think

Upon the morn's mischance.

Within the bed fair Isabel

In blushing sweetness lay,

Like flowers half-open'd by the dawn,

And waiting for the day.

And Rupert, by her lovely side,

In youthful beauty glows,

Like Phoebus, when he bends to cast

His beams upon a rose!

And here my song should leave them both,
Nor let the rest be told,

But for the horrid, horrid tale
It yet has to unfold!