Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him,

A death-cold carcase found;

He saw it not, but thought he felt
Its arms embrace him round.

He started up, and then return'd,

But found the phantom still; Invain he shrunk, it clipp'd him round, With damp and deadly chill!

And when he bent, the earthy lips

A kiss of horror gave;

"T was like the smell from charnel vaults, Or from the mouldering grave!

Ill-fated Rupert, wild and loud

Thou criedst to thy wife,

Oh! save me from this horrid fiend, My Isabel! my life!»

But Isabel had nothing seen,

She look'd around in vain;

And much she mourn'd the mad conceit

That rack'd her Rupert's brain.

At length from this invisible

These words to Rupert came:

(Oh God! while he did hear the words,
What terrors shook his frame!)
Husband! husband! I've the ring
Thou gavest to-day to me;
And thou 'rt to me for ever wed,
As I am wed to thee!

And all the night the demon lay

Cold-chilling by his side,

And strain'd him with such deadly grasp,
He thought he should have died!

But when the dawn of day was near,
The horrid phantom fled,

And left the affrighted youth to weep
By Isabel in bed.

All, all that day a gloomy cloud

Was seen on Rupert's brows;

Fair Isabel was likewise sad,

But strove to cheer her spouse.

And, as the day advanced, he thought
Of coming night with fear:

Ah! that he must with terror view
The bed that should be dear!

At length the second night arrived,
Again their couch they press'd;
Poor Rupert hoped that all was o'er,
And look'd for love and rest.

But oh! when midnight came, again
The fiend was at his side,
And, as it strain'd him in its grasp,
With howl exulting cried,-
.Husband! husband! I've the ring,
The ring thou gavest to me;
And thou 'rt to me for ever wed,
As I am wed to thee!

In agony of wild despair,

He started from the bed; And thus to his bewilder'd wife The trembling Rupert said:

Oh Isabel! dost thou not see A shape of horrors here, That strains me to the deadly kiss, And keeps me from my dear?»

No, no, my love! my Rupert, I
No shape of horrors see;
And much I mourn the phantasy
That keeps my dear from me!»

This night, just like the night before,
In terrors pass'd away,

Nor did the demon vanish thence
Before the dawn of day.

Says Rupert then, My Isabel,
Dear partner of my woe,
To Father Austin's holy cave
This instant will I go..

Now Austin was a reverend man,
Who acted wonders maint,
Whom all the country round believed
A devil or a saint!

And as the gloomy train advanced,

Rupert beheld from far

A female form of wanton mien

Scated upon a car.

And Rupert, as he gazed upon

The loosely-vested dame, Thought of the marble statue's look, For hers was just the same.

Behind her walk'd a hideous form,

With eye-balls flashing death; Whene'er he breathed, a sulphur'd smoke Came burning in his breath!

He seem'd the first of all the crowd
Terrific towering o'er;

Yes, yes," said Rupert, this is he,
And I need ask no more. »

Then slow he went, and to this fiend
The tablets trembling gave,

Who look'd and read them with a yell
That would disturb the grave.

And when he saw the blood-scrawl'd name,
His eyes with fury shine;

I thought, cries he, his time was out,
But he must soon be mine!»

Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue, Where are the arts by which that glory grew? The genuine virtues that with eagle-gaze Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze? Where is the heart by chymic truth refined, The exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind? Where are the links that twined with heavenly art, His country's interest round the patriot's heart? Where is the tongue that scatter'd words of fire? The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre? Do these descend with all that tide of fame Which vainly waters an unfruitful name?

SONG.

WHY does azure deck the sky! 'T is to be like thy looks of blue; Why is red the rose's dye?

Because it is thy blushes' hue. All that's fair, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

Why is falling snow so white,

But to be like thy bosom fair? Why are solar beams so bright?

That they may seem thy golden hair!
All that's bright, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!

Why are Nature 's beauties felt?
Oh! 't is thine in her we see!
Why has music power to melt?

Oh! because it speaks like thee.
All that's sweet, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!

MORALITY.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE.

ADDRESSED TO J. AT-NS-N, ESQ. M. R. I. A.' THOUGH long at school and college, dozing On books of rhyme and books of prosing, And copying from their moral pages Fine recipes for forming sages; Though long with those divines at school, Who think to make us good by rule; Who, in methodic forms advancing, Teaching morality like dancing, Tell us, for Heaven or money's sake, What steps we are through life to take: Though thus, my friend, so long employ'd, And so much midnight oil destroy'd,

I must confess, my searches past,

I only learn'd to doubt at last.

I find the doctors and the sages

Have differ'd in all climes and ages,

The gentleman to whom this poem is addressed is the author of some esteemed works, and was Mr Little's most particular friend. I have heard Mr Little very frequently speak of him as one in whom the elements were so mixed, that neither in his head nor beart had nature left any deficiency.-E.

But thus it is, all sects, we see,
Have watch-words of morality:
Some cry out Venus, others Jove;
Here 't is religion, there 't is love!
But while they thus so widely wander,
While mystics dream, and doctors ponder,
And some, in dialectics firm,
Seek virtue in a middle term;
While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance,
To chain morality with science;
The plain good man, whose actions teach
More virtue than a sect can preach,
Pursues his course, unsagely blest,
His tutor whispering in his breast:

'Aristippus.

Nor could he act a purer part,
Though he had Tully all by heart;
And when he drops the tear on woe,
He little knows or cares to know
That Epictetus blamed that tear,
By Heaven approved, to virtue dear!

Oh! when I've seen the morning beam
Floating within the dimpled stream,
While Nature, wakening from the night,
Has just put on her robes of light,
Have I, with cold optician's gaze,
Explored the doctrine of those rays?
No, pedants, I have left to you
Nicely to separate hue from hue:
Go, give that moment up to art,
When Heaven and Nature claim the heart;
And dull to all their best attraction,
Go-measure angles of refraction!
While 1, in feeling's sweet romance,
Look on each day-beam as a glance
From the great eye of Him above,
Wakening his world with looks of love!

THE NATAL GENIUS.
A DREAM.

TO———, THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH-DAY.

IN witching slumbers of the night,
I dream'd I was the airy sprite

That on thy natal moment smiled;
And thought I wafted on my wing
Those flowers which in Elysium spring,
To crown my lovely mortal child.

With olive-branch I bound thy head,
Heart's-case along thy path I shed,

Which was to bloom through all thy years; Nor yet did I forget to bind

Love's roses, with his myrtle twined,

And dew'd by sympathetic tears.

Such was the wild but precious boon, Which Fancy, at her magic noon,

Bade me to Nona's image payOh! were I, love, thus doom'd to be Thy little guardian deity,

How blest around thy steps I'd play!

Thy life should softly steal along,
Calm as some lonely shepherd's song

That's heard at distance in the grove;
No cloud should ever shade thy sky,
No thorns along thy pathway lie,

But all be sunshine, peace, and love!

The wing of Time should never brush Thy dewy lip's luxuriant flush,

To bid its roses withering die; Nor age itself, though dim and dark, Should ever quench a single spark That flashes from my Nona's eye!

PREFACE.

THIS Poem, somewhat different in form, and much more limited in extent, was originally designed as an episode for a work about which I have been, at intervals, employed during the last two years. Some months since, however, I found that my friend Lord Byron had, by an accidental coincidence, chosen the same subject for a drama; and as I could not but feel the disadvantage of coming after so formidable a rival, I thought it best to publish my humble sketch immediately, with such alterations and additions as I had time to make, and thus, by an earlier appearance in the literary horizon, give myself a chance of what astronomers call an Heliacal rising, before the luminary, in whose light I was to be lost, should appear.

As objections may be made, by persons whose opinions I respect, to the selection of a subject of this nature from the Scripture, I think it right to remark that, in point of fact, the subject is not scriptural—the notion upon which it is founded (that of the love of angels for women) having originated in an erroneous translation by the LXX, of that verse in the sixth chapter of Genesis, upon which the sole authority for the fable rests.' The foundation of my story, therefore, has as little to do with Holy Writ as have the dreams of the later Platonists, or the reveries of the Jewish divines; and, in appropriating the notion thus to the uses of poetry, I have done no more than establish it in that region of fiction, to which the opinions of the most rational Fathers, and of all other Christian theologians, have long ago consigned it.

In addition to the fitness of the subject for poetry, it struck me also as capable of affording an allegorical medium, through which might be shadowed out (as I have endeavoured to do in the following stories), the fall of the soul from its original purity-the loss of light and happiness which it suffers, in the pursuit of this world's perishable pleasures-and the punishments, both from conscience and divine justice, with which impurity, pride, and presumptuous inquiry into the awful secrets of God, are sure to be visited. The beautiful story of Cupid and Psyche owes its chief charm to this sort of • veiled meaning, and it has been my wish (however I may have failed in the attempt) to communicate the same moral interest to the following pages.

THE

LOVES OF THE ANGELS.

'Twas when the world was in its prime, When the fresh stars had just begun Their race of glory, and young Time Told his first birth-days by the sun;

1 See Note.

When, in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,—
Ere Sorrow came, or Sin had drawn
"Twixt man and Heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw, without surprise,
In the mid air, angelic eyes

Gazing upon this world below.
Alas, that passion should profane,

Even then, that morning of the earth! That, sadder still, the fatal stain

Should fall on hearts of heavenly birthAnd oh, that stain so dark should fall From woman's love, most sad of all!

One evening, in that time of bloom,
On a hill's side, where hung the ray
Of sunset, sleeping in perfume,

Three noble youths conversing lay;
And as they look'd, from time to time,

To the far sky, where Day-light furl'd His radiant wing, their brows sublime

Bespoke them of that distant worldCreatures of light, such as still play,

Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord, And through their infinite array Transmit each moment, night and day, The echo of his luminous word!

Of heaven they spoke, and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charm'd them thence;
Till, yielding gradual to the soft

And balmy evening's influence-
The silent breathing of the flowers-
The melting light that beam'd above,
As on their first fond erring hours,

Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When, like a bird, from its high nest
Won down by fascinating eyes,
For woman's smile he lost the skies.

The First who spoke was one, with look
The least celestial of the three-
A Spirit of light mould, that took

The prints of earth most yieldingly; Who, even in heaven, was not of those Nearest the throne, but held a place, Far off, among those shining rows

That circle out through endless space, And o'er whose wings the light from Him In the great centre falls most dim.

Still fair and glorious, he but shone
Among those youths the unheavenliest one-
A creature to whom light remain'd
From Eden still, but alter'd, stain'd,