ΤΟ

ON SEEING HER WITH A WHITE VEIL AND A RICH GIRDLE.

Μαργαριται δηλουσι δακρύων ῥουν.

Ap. NICEPHOR. in Oneirocrition

PUT off the vestal veil, nor, oh!
Let weeping angels view it;
Your cheeks belie its virgin snow,
And blush repenting through it.

Put off the fatal zone you wear;

The shining pearls around it Are tears, that fell from Virtue there, The hour when Love unbound it.

WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF

OF

A LADY'S COMMONPLACE BOOK. HERE is one leaf reserved for me, From all thy sweet memorials free; And here my simple song might tell The feelings thou must guess so well. But could I thus, within thy mind, One little vacant corner find, Where no impression yet is seen, Where no memorial yet hath been, Oh! it should be my sweetest care To write my name forever there!

ΤΟ MRS. BL

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

THEY say that Love had once a book (The urchin likes to copy you,) Where, all who came, the pencil took,

And wrote, like us, a line or two.

"Twas Innocence, the maid divine,

Who kept this volume bright and fair, And saw that no unhallow'd line

Or thought profane should enter there;

And daily did the pages fill

With fond device and loving lore, And every leaf she turn'd was still

More bright than that she turn'd before.

Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas, as oft,

And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snow-white leaf,
Which Love had still to smooth again.
But, ah! there came a blooming boy,
Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
That all who read them sigh'd for more.

And Pleasure was this spirit's name,

And though so soft his voice and look, Yet Innocence, whene'er he came, Would tremble for her spotless book. For, oft a Bacchant cup he bore,

With earth's sweet nectar sparkling bright; And much she fear'd lest, mantling o'er,

Some drops should on the pages light.

And so it chanced, one luckless night,
The urchin let that goblet fall
O'er the fair book, so pure, so white,

And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain now, touch'd with shame, he tried
To wash those fatal stains away;
Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide,

The leaves grew darker every day.

And Fancy's sketches lost their hue,

And Hope's sweet lines were all effaced, And Love himself now scarcely knew What Love himself so lately traced.

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,

(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?) And Love, while many a tear he shed, Reluctant flung the book away.

The index now alone remains,

Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some earthy stains,

Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure.

And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,
And oft, by this memorial aided,
Brings back the pages now no more,
And thinks of lines that long have faded

I know not if this tale be true,

But thus the simple facts are stated; And I refer their truth to you,

Since Love and you are near related.

TO

CARA,

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.

CONCEAL'D within the shady wood

A mother left her sleeping child, And flew, to cull her rustic food,

The fruitage of the forest wild.

But storms upon her pathway rise,
The mother roams, astray and weeping;
Far from the weak appealing cries

Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.

She hopes, she fears; a light is seen,

And gentler blows the night wind's breath; Yet no 'tis gone-the storms are keen, The infant may be chill'd to death!

Perhaps, ev'n now, in darkness shrouded,
His little eyes lie cold and still ;-
And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded,
Life and love may light them still.

Thus, Cara, at our last farewell,

When, fearful ev'n thy hand to touch, I mutely ask'd those eyes to tell

If parting pain'd thee half so much :

I thought, and, oh; forgive the thought, For none was e'er by love inspired Whom fancy had not also taught

To hope the bliss his soul desired.

Yes, I did think, in Cara's mind,
Though yet to that sweet mind unknown,
I left one infant wish behind,

One feeling which I call'd my own.

Oh blest! though out in fancy blest,
How did I ask of Pity's care,
To shield and strengthen, in thy breast,
The nursling I had cradled there.

And, many an hour, beguiled by pleasure,
And many an hour of sorrow numb'ring,

I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure,
I left within thy bosom slumb'ring.

Perhaps, indifference has not chill'd it, Haply, it yet a throb may giveYet, no-perhaps, a doubt has kill'd it; Say, dearest-does the feeling live?

ΤΟ

CARA,

ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S DAY

WHEN midnight came to close the year,

We sigh'd to think it thus should take The hours it gave us-hours as dear

As sympathy and love could make Their blessed moments,-every sun Saw us, my love, more closely one.

But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh

Which came a new year's light to shed, That smile we caught from eye to eye

Told us, those moments were not fled: Oh, no, we felt, some future sun Should see us still more closely one.

Thus may we ever, side by side,
From happy years to happier glide;
And still thus may the passing sigh
We give to hours, that vanish o'er
Be follow'd by the smiling eye,

That Hope shall shed on scenes before us!

то

1801.

To be the theme of every hour
The heart devotes to Fancy's power,
When her prompt magic fills the mind
With friends and joys we've left behind,
And joys return and friends are near,
And all are welcomed with a tear:-
In the mind's purest seat to dwell,

To be remember'd oft and well
By one whose heart, though vain and wild,
By passion led, by youth beguiled,
Can proudly still aspire to be

All that may yet win smiles from thee-
If thus to live in every part

Of a lone, weary wanderer's heart;
If thus to be its sole employ

Can give thee one faint gleam of joy,
Believe it, Mary,-oh! believe
A tongue that never can deceive,
Though, erring, it too oft betray

Ev'n more than Love should dare to say,-
In Pleasure's dream or Sorrow's hour,
In crowded hall or lonely bower,

The business of my life shall be, Forever to remember thee.

And though that heart be dead to mine, Since Love is life and wakes not thine, I'll take thy image, as the form

Of one whom Love had fail'd to warm,

Which, though it yield no answering thrill,
Is not less dear, is worshipp'd still-
Il take it, wheresoe'er I stray,
The bright, cold burden of my way.
To keep this semblance fresh in bloom,
My heart shall be its lasting tomb,
And Memory, with embalming care,
Shall keep it fresh and fadeless there.

THE

GENIUS OF HARMONY,

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

Ad harmoniam canere mundum.
CICERO de Nat. Deor., lib. iii.

THERE lies a shell beneath the waves,
In many a hollow winding wreath'd,

Such as of old

Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;

This magic shell,

From the white bosom of a syren fell,

As once she wander'd by the tide that laves
Sicilia's sands of gold.

1 In the "Histoire Naturelle des Antilles," there is an account of some curious shells, found at Curaçon, on the back of which were lines, filled with musical characters so distinet and perfect, that the writer assures us a very charming trio was sung from one of them. "On le nomme musical, parcequ'il porte sur le dos des lignes noirâtres pleines de notes, qui ont une espèce de clé pour les mettre en chant, de sorte que l'on diroit qu'il ne manque que la lettre à cette tablature naturelle. Ce curieux gentilhomme (M. du Montel) rapporte qu'il en a vû qui avoient cinq lignes, une clé, et des notes, qui fermoient un accord parfait. Quelqu'un y avoit ajouté la lettre, que la nature avoit oubliée, et la faisoit chanter en forme de trio, dont l'air étoit fort agréable."—Chap. xix. art. 11. The author adds, a poet might imagine that these shells were used by the syrens at their concerts.

* According to Cicero, and his commentator, Macrobius. the lunar tone is the gravest and faintest on the planetary heptachord. "Quam ob causam summus ille cœli stellifer cursus, cujus conversio est concitatior, acuto et excitato movetur sono; gravissimo autem hic lunaris atque infimus." -Somn. Scip. Because, says Macrobius, "spiritu ut in extremitate languescente jam volvitur, et propter angustias quibus penultimus orbis arctatur impetu leniore convertitur." -In Somn. Scip., lib. ii. cap. 4. In their musical arrangement of the heavenly bodies, the ancient writers are not very intelligible. See Ptolem., lib. iii.

Leone Hebreo, in pursuing the idea of Aristotle, that the heavens are animal, attributes their harmony to perfect and reciprocal love. "Non pero manca fra loro il perfetto et reciproco amore: la causa principale, che ne mostra il loro

Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,
Go, bring the bright shell to my bower,
And I will fold thee in such downy dreams
As lap the Spirit of the Seventh Sphere,
When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear
And thou shalt own,

That, through the circle of creation's zone, •
Where matter slumbers or whore spirit beams;
From the pellucid tides,3 that whirl
The planets through their maze of song,
To the small rill, that weeps along

Murmuring o'er beds of pearl:

From the rich sigh

Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky,
To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields
On Afric's burning fields;

Thou'lt wondering own this universe divine
Is mine!

That I respire in all and all in me,

One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony.

Welcome, welcome, mystic shell!
Many a star has ceased to burn,"
Many a tear has Saturn's urn

O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept,'

נו

amore, è la lor amicitia armonica et la concordanza, che perpetuamente si trova in loro."-Dialog. ii. di Amore, p. 58. This reciprico amore" of Leone is the piλorns of the ancient Empedocles, who seems, in his Love and Hate of the Elements, to have given a glimpse of the principles of attraction and repulsion. See the fragment to which I allude in Laertius, Αλλοτε μεν φιλότητι, συνερχόμεν', κ. τ. λ., lib. viii. cap. 2, n. 12.

* Leucippus, the atomist, imagined a kind of vortices in the heavens, which he borrowed from Anaxagoras, and possibly suggested to Descartes.

Heraclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjectures that the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with this poet, who, in representing the solar beams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the air.

• In the account of Africa which D'Ablancourt has translated, there is mention of a tree in that country, whose branches when shaken by the hand produce very sweet sounds. "Le même auteur (Abenzėgar) dit, qu'il y a un certain arbre, qui produit des gaules comme d'oster, et qu en les prenant à la main et les branlant, elles font une espèce d'harmonie fort agréable," &c. &c.-L'Afrique de Marmol.

Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, of some of those fixed stars, which we are taught to consider as suns, attended each by its system. Descartes thought that our earth might formerly have been a sun, which became obscured by a thick incrustation over its surface. This probably suggested the idea of a central fire.

7 Porphyry says, that Pythagoras held the sea to be a tear, Tny Saλarrav pev ekadei eivai daxpvov, (De Vitâ ;) and some