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It was noon, and on flowers that languished around

In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.
And “Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed,

“ With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,

How blest could I live, and how calm could I die! "By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips

In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips,

Which had never been sighed on by any but mine !"



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Noσει τα φιλτατα.

COME, take the harp— 'tis vain to muse

Upon the gathering ills we see ;
Oh! take the harp, and let me lose

All thoughts of ill in hearing thee !
Sing to me, love !—though death were near,

Thy song could make my soul forget-
Nay, nay, in pity dry that tear,

All may be well, be happy yet !
Let me but see that snowy arm

Once more upon the dear harp lie,
And I will cease to dream of harm,

Will smile at fate, while thou art nigh!
Give me that strain, of mournful touch,

We used to love long, long ago,
Before our hearts had known as much

As now, alas! they bleed to know !
Sweet notes ! they tell of former peace,

Of all that looked so rapturous then,
Now withered, lost-oh! pray thee, cease,

I cannot bear those sounds again!
Art thou, too, wretched ? yes, thou art;

I see thy tears flow fast with mine
Come, come to this devoted heart,

'Tis breaking, but it still is thine !

A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY. 'Twas on the Red Sea coast, at morn, we met The venerable man; a virgin bloom

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Of softness mingled with the vigorous thought
That towered upon his brow; as when we see
The gentle moon and the full radiant sun
Shining in heaven together. When he spoke
'Twas language sweetened into song—such holy sounds
As oft the spirit of the good man hears,
Prelusive to the harmony of heaven,
When death is nigh! and still, as he unclosed
His sacred lips, an odour, all as bland
As ocean breezes gather from the flowers
That blossom in elysium, breathed around !
With silent awe we listened, while he told
Of the dark veil which many an age had hung
O'er Nature's form, till by the touch of time
The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous,
And half the goddess beamed in glimpses through it;
Of magic wonders that were known and taught
By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named)
Who mused, amid the mighty cataclysm,
O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore,
Nor let the living star of science sink
Beneath the waters which ingulphed the world !-
Of visions by Calliope revealed
To him whó traced upon his typic lyre
The diapason of man's mingled frame,
And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven!
With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane,
Which the grave sons of Mochus, many a night,
Told to the young and bright-haired visitant
Of Carmel's sacred mount !—Then, in a flow
Of calmer converse, he beguiled us on
Through many a maze of garden and of porch,
Through many a system where the scattered light
Of heavenly truth lay, like a broken beam
From the pure sun, which, though refracted alt
Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still,
And bright through every change !-he spoke of

The lone, eternal One, who dwells above,
And of the soul's untraceable descent
From that high fount of spirit, through the grades
Of intellectual being, till it mix
With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark;
Nor even then, though sunk in earthly dross
Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch
Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still !
As some bright river, which has rolled along
Through meads of flowery light and mines of gold,
When poured at length into the dusky deep,
Disdains to mingle with its briny taint,
But keeps awhile the pure and golden tings
The balmy freshness, of the fields it left!


And here the old man ceased- a winged train
Of nymphs and genii led him from our eyes.
The fair illusion fled ! and, as I waked,
I knew my visionary soul had been
Among that people of aëriai dreams
Who live upon the burning galaxy !

The world had just begun to steal

Each hope that led me lightly on ;
I felt not as I used to feel,

And life grew dark and love was gone ! No eye to mingle sorrow's tear,

No lip to mingle pleasure's breath, No tongue to call me kind and dear

'Twas gloomy, and I wished for death ! But when I saw that gentle eye,

Oh! something seemed to tell me then That I was yet too young to die,

And hope and bliss might bloom again! With every beamy smile what crossed

Your kindling cheek, you lighted home Some feeling which my heart had lost,

And peace, which long had learned to roam ! 'Twas then indeed so sweet to live,

Hope looked so new and Love so kind, That, though I weep, I still sorgive

The ruin which they've left behind ! I could have loved you-oh so well !

The dream, that wishing boyhood knows, Is but a bright beguiling spell,

Which only lives while passion glows : But, when this early flush declines,

When the heart's vivid morning fleets, You know not then how close it twines

Round the first kindred soul it meets ! Yes, yes, I could have loved, as one

Who, while his youth's enchantments fall, Finds something dear to rest upon,

Which pays him for the loss of all !


то — In slumber, I prithee, how is it

That souls are oft taking the air, And paying each other a visit,

While bodies are-Heaven knows where?

Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it,

Your Soul took a fancy to roam,
For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet,

Come ask whether mine was at home.

And mine let her in with delight,

And they talked and they kissed the time through,
For, when souls come together at night,

There is no knowing what they mayn't do!
And your little Soul, Heaven bless her!

Had much to complain and to say
Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her

By keeping her prisoned all day.
If I happen," said she, “but to steal

For a peep now and then to her eye,
Or, to quiet the fever I feel,

Just venture abroad on a sigh ;
“In an instant she frightens me in

With some phantom of prudence or terror,
For fear I should stray into sin,

Or, what is still worse, into error!
“So, instead of displaying my graces

Through look and through words „nd through mier.
I am shut up in corners and places

Where truly I blush to be seen!”
Upon hearing this piteous confession,

My Soul, looking tenderly at her,
Declared, as for grace and discretion,

He did not know much of the matter;
“But to-morrow, sweet Spirit !” he said,

“Be at home after midnight, and then
I will come when your lady's in bed,

And we'll talk o'er the subject again."
So she whispered a word in his ear,

I suppose to her door to direct him,
And—just after midnight, my dear,

Your polite little Soul may expect him.

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That life, without this cheering ray,
Which came, like sunshine, every day,
And all my pain, my sorrow chased,
Is now a lone and loveless waste.--
Where are the chords she used to touch?
Where are the songs she loved so much?
The songs are hushed, the chords are still,
And so, perhaps, will every thrill
Of friendship soon be lulled to rest,
Which late I waked in Anna's breast !
Yet no—the simple notes I played
On memory's tablet soon may fade ;
The songs which Anna loved to hear
May all be lost on Anna's ear ;
But friendship's sweet and fairy strail.
Shall ever in her heart remain ;
Nor memory lose nor time impair
The sympathies which tremble there!

Written on the River St. Lawrence.*
Et renrigem cantus hortatur.-Quintilian.
FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

* I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sung to us very frequently, The wind was so unfavourable that they were obliged to row all the way, and we were five days in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the day, and at night forced to take shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that would receive ris. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all these difficulties.

Our voyageurs had good voices, and sung perfectly in tune together. The original words of the air, to which I adapted these stanzas, appeared to be a long, incoherent story, of which I could understand but little, from the bar. barous pronunciation of the Canadian. It begins

Dans mon chemin j'ai rencontré

Deux cavaliers très bien montés; And the refrain to every verse was

A l'ombre d'un bois je m'en vais jouer,

A l'ombre d'un bois je m'en vais danser. I ventured to harmonize this air, and have published it. Without that charm which association gives to every little memorial of scenes or feelings that are past, the melody may perhaps be thought common and critling: but I remember when we have entered, at sunset, upon one of those beautiful lakes into which the St. Lawrence so grandly and unexpectedly opens, I have heard this simple air with a pleasure which the finest compositions of the first masters have never given me, and now there is not a note of it which does not recall to my memory the oip of our oars in the St. Lawrence, the flight of our boat down the Rapids, and all those new and fanciful impressions to which my heart was alive during he whole of this very interesting voyage.

The above stanzas are supposed to be sung by those vovageurs who go to the Gran i Fortage by the Utawas River. For an account of this wonderful undertaking sc Sir Alexander Mackenzie's General History of the Fur Trade, preSixed nis Jrurnal.

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