w utavell their curi a And solemn smokes, like altars of the world. Thrice beautiful!-to that delightful spot Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot. There Art, too, shows, when Nature's beauty palls, Her sculptured marbles, and her pictured walls; And there are forms in which they both conspire To whisper themes that know not how to tire; The speaking ruins in that gentle clime Have but been hallow'd by the hand of Time, And each can mutely prompt some thought of flame: The meanest stone is not without a name. Then come, beloved!-hasten o'er the sea, To build our happy hearth in blooming Italy. per sympainy. An earthling most divine, To ramble at his side; The one forsakes ferocity, And momently grows mild; The other tempers more and more The artful with the wild. She humanizes him, and he III. O, say not they must soon be old, Their limbs prove faint, their breasts feel cold! Yet envy I that sylvan pair More than my words express,The singular beauty of their lot, And seeming happiness. They have not been reduced to share Repining towards the past: Their actions all are free, And passion lends their way of life And how can they have any cares?- IV. The world, for all they know of it, The heavens above are bright; For them the moon doth wax and wane, For them the branches of those trees Upon delighted wings; For them that brook, the brakes among, Their shapes diversify, And change at once, like smiles and frowns, The expression of the sky. For them, and by them, all is gay, Their minds assimilate To outward forms, imparting thus Could aught be painted otherwise Than fair, seen through her star-bright eyes? He, too, because she fills his sight, Each object falsely sees; The pleasure that he has in her Makes all things seem to please. And this is love;-and it is life SONG. WE break the glass, whose sacred wine, To some beloved health we drain. Lest future pledges, less divine, Should e'er the hallow'd toy profane; But still the old, impassion'd ways Thine image chamber'd in my brain, And still it looks as when the hours Went by like flights of singing birds, Or that soft chain of spoken flowers, And airy gems--thy words. A HEALTH. I FILL this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon; And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, "Tis less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, Affections are as thoughts to her, The image of themselves by turns,- Of her bright face one glance will trace And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain; I fill'd this cup to one made up A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon Her health and would on earth there stood, Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. THE VOYAGER'S SONG.* SOUND trumpets, ho!-weigh anchor-loosen sail— Flit we, a gliding dream, with troublous motion, Onward, my friends, to that bright, florid isle, For Bimini ;-in its enchanted ground, The hallow'd fountains we would seek, are found; Hail, bitter birth!-once more my feelings all To earth by Age, the great Iconoclast. As from Gadara's founts they once could come, Charm-call'd, from these Love's genii shall arise, And build their perdurable home, MIRANDA, in thine eyes. By Nature wisely gifted, not destroy'd Shall teach thee bliss incapable of shade;- Sun of that perfect heaven, thou❜lt calmly see Stag, raven, phenix, drop away With human transiency. Thus rich in being,-beautiful,-adored, "A radition prevailed among the natives of Puerto Rico, that in the Isle of Bimini, one of the Lucayos, there was a fountain of such wonderful virtue, as to renew the youth and recall the vigour of every person who bathed in its salutary waters. In hopes of finding this grand restorative, Ponce de Leon and his followers, ranged through the islands, searching with fruitless solicitude for the fountain, which was the chief object of the expedition."-ROBERTSON's America. The envious years, which steal our pleasures, thou For me, this world has not yet been a place A PICTURE-SONG. How may this little tablet feign The charms, that all must wonder at, But yet, methinks, that sunny smile And I should know those placid eyes, Two shaded crystal wells; Nor can my soul, the limner's art Attesting with a sigh, Forget the blood that deck'd thy cheek, They could not semble what thou art, As soft as sleep or pity is, And pure as mountain-air ; But here are common, earthly hues, To such an aspect wrought, That none, save thine, can seem so like The beautiful of thought. The song I sing, thy likeness like, Is painful mimicry Of something better, which is now A memory to me, Who have upon life's frozen sea Where man's magnetic feelings show The sportive hopes, that used to chase And on a careless, sullen peace, My double-fronted mind, Like JANUS when his gates were shut, APOLLO placed his harp, of old, A while upon a stone, If touch'd, will yield the music yet, |