Who could endure the horrid thought!-What makes That feels so deathy? Had. Dark imaginations haunt me When I recall the dreadful interview. Tam. O, tell them not-I would not hear them. Had. But why contemn a Spirit's love? so high, So glorious, if he haply deigned ?— Tam. Forswear My Maker! love a Demon! Had. No-0, no My thoughts but wandered-Oft, alas! they wander. [He appears lost in thought.] Tell me, ascrib'st thou influence to the stars? stars? What know'st thou of the Tam. I know that they were made to rule the night. Had. Like palace lamps! thou echoest well thy grandsire. Woman! the stars are living, glorious, Amazing, infinite! Tam. Speak not so wildly. I know them numberless, resplendent, set Had. Eternity! Oh! mighty, glorious, miserable thought!- With eyes experienced, unobscured by torments,— Tam. What ails thee, Hadad?-Draw me not so close. Had. Tamar! I need thy love-more than thy loveTam. Thy cheek is wet with tears-Nay, let us part'Tis late-I cannot, must not linger. [Breaks from him, and exit.] Had. Loved and abhorred!-Still, still accursed![He paces, twice or thrice, up and down, with passionate gestures; then turns his face to the sky, and stands a moment in silence.] -Oh! where, In the illimitable space, in what His worlds, his rolling orbs of light, that fill With life and beauty yonder infinite, Their radiant journey run, for ever set, Where, where, in what abyss shall I be groaning? [Exit.] Hadad's Description of the City of David.-HILLHOUSE. "TIS so;-the hoary harper sings aright; Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods Hailed by the pilgrims of the desert, bound The Song at Twilight.-LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON.* WHEN evening spreads her shades around, When not a murmur, not a sound, To Fancy's sportive ear is given; *The remains and a biographical sketch of this remarkable girl were published last year by Mr. Samuel F. B. Morse. An interesting review f the volume appeared soon after in the London Quarterly: we are not When the broad orb of heaven is bright, Then, when our thoughts are raised above And tears of gratitude receive. The song which thrills my bosom's core, Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 'Twere almost sacrilege to sing Those notes amid the glare of day; When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed, aware that it has been noticed in any periodical in this country. Southey has rendered himself distinguished for his attention to youthful genius. Except the cases of Chatterton and Henry Kirke White, he thinks there is no instance on record of "so early, so ardent, and so fatal a pursuit of intellectual advancement," as is exhibited in the history of this young lady. "In these poems, there is enough of originality, enough of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of growing power, to warrant any expectations, however sanguine, which the patron, and the friends and parents of the deceased, could have formed; nor can any person rise from the perusal of such a volume without feeling the vanity of human hopes." She was peculiarly sensitive to music. There was one song (it was Moore's Farewell to his Harp) to which she took a special fancy; she wished to hear it only at twilight; thus, with that same perilous love of excitement which made her place the windharp in the window when she was composing, seeking to increase the effect which the song produced upon a nervous system, already diseasedly susceptible; for it is said, that, whenever she heard this song, she became cold, pále, and almost fainting; yet it was her favorite of all songs, and gave occasion to these verses, addressed, in her fifteenth year, to her sister. "To young readers it might be useful to observe, that these verses, in one place, approach the verge of meaning, but are on the wrong side of the line: to none can it be necessary to say, that they breathe the deep feeling of a mind essentially poetical." The piece here referred to, is that extracted above. ED. Hagar in the Wilderness.-N. P. WILLIS. THE morning broke. Light stole upon the clouds With a strange beauty. Earth received again Its garment of a thousand dies; and leaves, And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers, And every thing that bendeth to the dew, And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. All things are dark to sorrow; and the light, To see a mirth in any thing it loves. She stood at Abraham's tent. Her lips were pressed Why bends the pat: iarch as he cometh now Is passing fair and beautiful, he breathes He gave to her the water and the bread, Should Hagar weep? May slighted woman turn, O no! by all her loveliness, by all Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek She went her way with a strong step and slow; Her pressed lip arched, and her clear eye undimmed, As it had been a diamond, and her form Borne proudly up, as if her heart breathed through. As I have said, her spirit, and the seed The morning past, and Asia's sun rode up |