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solely indebted to its Author.

There is somewhere, in infinite space, a world that does not roll within the precincts of mercy: and as it is reasonable, and even Scriptural, to suppose that there is music in heaven; in those dismal regions, perhaps, the reverse of it is found, tones so dismal as to make woe itself insupportable, and to acuminate even despair.



“A holy image,
Shrined in the soul,-for ever beautiful,
Undimmed by earth-its tears--its weaknesses-
And changeless.”


LONG years have passed; but yet, in silent mood;
When pleasure to the heart is but a dream,
And life with cheerless gloom is canopied,
Amidst my musings, when I stray alone
Through moorland wastes, or woodland solitudes;
Or when at twilight, by the hearth I sit
In loneliness and silence, bursting through
The shades of my reverie, appears
In undecayed perfection, the same smile,
The same bewitching and seraphic form.-
It cannot pass away—it haunts me still-
From slumber waking, on my midnight couch,
Methinks I see it floating, beautiful,

Before me -still before me, like a star
O'er the dark outline of a mountain steep ;
And when the glory of the crimson moon,
Tinging the honeysuckle flowers, breaks in,
Then still it passes o'er the pulseless mind,
Revolving silently the by-past times,
Quiet and lovely, like a rainbow dream,
O'er tempests that have showered and passed away.
Long years have passed—we cannot soon forget
The lightning gleams that flash upon the heart;
Nor pass, amid the solitude of life,
Its bright green spots unnoticed, or its flowers.
Long years have passed—'twas on a fatal night,
A night of harmless mirth and revelry,
When bounding throbbed the youthful heart, and

Played, meteor like, upon a hundred cheeks,
As if contagiously; while sparkling lamps
Poured forth a deluging lustre o'er the crowd,
And music, like a syren, weaned the heart
From every groveling and contentious thought,
From every care.

Amid familiar friends,
The lovely and the faithful, glad I stood
To mark them all so joyous.—As I gazed
An eye encountered mine--that startled me-
Sure never breathing creature was more fair!
Amid the mazy movements of the dance,
Accordant to the music's finest tone,
Sylph-like she floated, graceful as a swan
Oaring its way athwart a summer lake,
Her step almost as silent:-as she stood,

Again that heavenly eye encountered mine,-
Pale was the brow as if serenest thought,
Quiet, and innocence, alone dwelt there ;
But yet, around the rosy lips there played
A laughing smile, like Hebe's, which dispelled
Its calmness, and betokened life and joy.
Her golden tresses, from the temples pale,
And from around ber alabaster neck,
Were filleted up with roses and gay flowers,
Wove like a garland round them: skiey robes,
The tincture of the young year's finest blue,
Were thrown in beauty round her graceful form,
And added to its brightness ; so that he
Who dwelt on it delighted, almost feared
The vision would disperse into the air,
And mock his gaze with vacancy.---'Tis past,--
Years have outspread their shadowy wings be-

But the sound of that fair lady's voice
Hath been a music to my soul unheard ;
The lightning of that glorious countenance,
The shining richness of that golden hair,
The fascination of those magic eyes,
The smiling beauty of those small red lips,
The graceful lightness of that angel form,
Have been to me but things of memory.
Before that festal night, 'mid womankind,
That peerless form did never meet my view,
It was to me a blank—a thing unknown ;-
After that festal night, my


eyes Have never feasted on its loveliness;

I know not whence it came or whither fled-
I know not by what human name 'tis called,-
Whether 'tis yet a blossom of this earth,
Or long ere this transplanted into heaven!
It is to me a treasure of the mind,
A picture in the chamber of the brain
Hung up, and framed-a flower from youthful

years, Breathed on by heavenly zephyrs, and preserved Safe from decay, in everlasting bloom !

It cannot be that for abiding place, This earth alone is ours; it cannot be That for a fleeting span of chequered years, Of broken sunshine, cloudiness, and storm, We tread this sublunary scene—and die, Like winds that wail amid a dreary wood, To silence and to nothingness; like waves That murmur on the sea-beach, and dissolve. Why, then, from out the temple of our hearts, Do aspirations spring that overleap The barriers of our mortal destiny, And chain us to the very gates of heaven? Why does the beauty of a vernal morn, When earth, exulting, from her wintry tomb Breaks forth with early flowers, and song of birds, Strike on our heart as ominous, and say, Surely man's fate is such ?

-At summer eve, Why do the fairy unsubstantial clouds, Tricked out in rainbow garments, glimmer forth, And mock us with their loveliness, and tell That earth hath not of these ?- The tiny stars,

That gem in countless crowds the midnight sky,
Why were they placed so far beyond the grasp
Of sight and comprehension, so beyond
The expansion of our bounded faculties,
If one day, like the isles that speck the main,
These worlds shall spread not open to our view ?
Why do the mountain steeps their solitudes
Expand ?--or roaring down the dizzy rocks,
The mighty cataracts descend in foam ?-
Is it to shew our insignificance ?
To tell us we are nought ?— And finally,
If born not to behold supernal things,
Why have we glimpses of beatitude,
Presented to our gaze-and taken from us?
For thou art one of such, most glorious form!
A portion of some unseen paradise
That visitest the silence of my thought,
Rendering my life beautiful.



Soon the bloom of youth will fade,
Wrinkles soon his cheeks invade,
Soon the glossy jet black hair
Turns to white with

age The ruby lip, the brilliant eye, Lose their lustre, fade, and die.

and care,

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