The only blessings, since the fall Of our weak souls, that still recall

A trace of their high, glorious birthHow kindred are the dreams you bring!

How Love, though unto earth so prone, Delights to take religion's wing,

When time or grief hath stain'd his own! How near to Love's beguiling brink,

Too oft, entranced Religion lies! While Music, Music is the link

They both still hold by to the skies, The language of their native sphere, Which they had else forgotten here.

How then could ZARAPI fail to feel

That moment's witcheries?-one, so fair, Breathing out music, that might steal

Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer That seraphs might be proud to share! Oh, he did feel it, all too well

With warmth, that far too dearly costNor knew he, when at last he fell, To which attraction, to which spell, Love, Music, or Devotion, most His soul in that sweet hour was lost.

Sweet was the hour, though dearly won, And pure, as aught of earth could be. For then first did the glorious sun

Before religion's altar see Two hearts in wedlock's golden tie Self-pledged, in love to live and die. Blest union! by that Angel wove, And worthy from such hands to come; Safe, sole asylum, in which Love, When fall'n or exiled from above,

In this dark world can find a home.

And, though the Spirit had transgress'd,
Had, from his station 'mong the bless'd
Won down by woman's smile, allow'd
Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er
The mirror of his heart, and cloud

God's image, there so bright before-
Yet never did that Power look down
On error with a brow so mild;
Never did Justice wear a frown,

Through which so gently Mercy smiled. For humble was their love-with awe And trembling like some treasure kept,

Sara.

2 An allusion to the Sephiroths or Splendors of the Jewish Cabbala, represented as a tree, of which God is the crown or summit.

The Sephiroths are the higher orders of emanative beings in the strange and incomprehensible system of the Jewish

That was not theirs by holy law-
Whose beauty with remorse they saw,

And o'er whose preciousness they wept
Humility, that low, sweet root,
From which all heavenly virtues shoot,
Was in the hearts of both-but most

In NAMA's heart, by whom alone
Those charms for which a heaven was lost,
Seem'd all unvalued and unknown;
And when her seraph's eyes she caught,

And hid hers glowing on his breast,
Even bliss was humbled by the thought-

"What claim have I to be so bless'd ?"
Still less could maid, o meek, have nursed
Desire of knowledge-that vain thirst,
With which the sex hath all been cursed,
From luckless EVE to her, who near
The Tabernacle stole to hear
The secrets of the angels: no-

To love as her own Seraph loved,
With Faith, the same through bliss and wo-
Faith, that, were even its light removed,
Could, like the dial, fix'd remain,

And wait till it shone out again;
With Patience that, though often bow'd

By the rude storm, can rise anew;
And Hope that, even from Evil's cloud,

Sees sunny Good half breaking through! This deep, relying Love, worth more In heaven than all a Cherub's loreThis Faith, more sure than aught beside, Was the sole joy, ambition, pride Of her fond heart-th' unreasoning scope Of all its views, above, belowSo true she felt it that to hope,

To trust, is happier than to know. And thus in humbleness they trod, Abash'd, but pure before their God; Nor e'er did earth behold a sight

So meekly beautiful as they,
When, with the altar's holy light

Full on their brows, they knelt to pray,
Hand within hand, and side by side,
Two links of love, awhile untied
From the great chain above, but fast
Holding together to the last!-
Two fallen Splendors, from that tree,
Which buds with such eternally,
Shaken to earth, yet keeping all
Their light and freshness in the fall.

Cabbala. They are called by various names, Pity, Beauty, &c. &c.; and their influences are supposed to act throngh certain canals, which communicate with each other.

3 The reader may judge of the rationality of this Jewish system by the following explanation of part of the machinery: -"Les canaux qui sortent de la Miséricorde et de la Force,

Their only punishment, (as wrong,

However sweet, must bear its brand,) Their only doom was this-that, long

As the green earth and ocean stand,
They both shall wander here-the same,
Throughout all time, in heart and frame-
Still looking to that goal sublime,

Whose light remote, but sure, they see;
Pilgrims of Love, whose way is Time,
Whose home is in Eternity!
Subject, the while, to all the strife,
True Love encounters in this life-
The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain;
The chill, that turns his warmest sighs
To earthly vapor, ere they rise;
The doubt he feeds on, and the pain

That in his very sweetness lies:-
Still worse, th' illusions that betray

His footsteps to their shining brink; That tempt him, on his desert way

Through the bleak world, to bend and drink, Where nothing meets his lips, alas,But he again must sighing pass On to that far-off home of peace, In which alone his thirst will cease.

All this they bear, but, not the less,
Have monats rich in happiness-
Bless'd meetings, after many a day
Of widowhood pass'd far away,
When the loved face again is seen
Close, close, with not a tear between-
Confidings frank, without control,
Pour'd mutually from soul to soul;
As free from any fear or doubt

As is that light from chill or stain,
The sun into the stars sheds out,

To be by them shed back again!That happy minglement of hearts,

Where, changed as chymic compounds are,

Each with its own existence parts,

To find a new one, happier far!

et qui vont aboutir à la Beauté, sont chargés d'un grand

Such are their joys-and, crowning all,
That blessed hope of the bright hour,
When, happy and no more to fall,

Their spirits shall, with freshen'd power, Rise up rewarded for their trust

In Him, from whom all goodness springs, And, shaking off earth's soiling dust

From their emancipated wings, Wander forever through those skies Of radiance, where Love never dies!

In what lone region of the earth

These Pilgrims now may roam or dwell,
God and the Angels, who look forth
To watch their steps, alone can tell.
But should we, in our wanderings,

Meet a young pair, whose beauty wants
But the adornment of bright wings,

To look like heaven's inhabitants-
Who shine where'er they tread, and yet
Are humble in their earthly lot,
As is the wayside violet,

That shines unseen, and were it not
For its sweet breath would be forgot-
Whose hearts, in every thought, åre one,
Whose voices utter the same wills-
Answering, as Echo doth some tone
Of fairy music 'mong the hills,

So like itself, we seek in vain
Which is the echo, which the strain-
Whose piety is love, whose love,

Though close as 'twere their souls' embrace, Is not of earth,ut from above

Like two fair mirrors, face to face, Whose light, from one to th' other thrown, Is heaven's reflection, not their ownShould we e'er meet with aught so pure, So perfect here, we may be sure

"Tis ZARAPH and his bride we see ; And call young lovers round, to view The pilgrim pair, as they pursue

Their pathway towards eternity.

SKEPTICISM.

ERE Psyche drank the cup, that shed
Immortal Life into her soul,
Some evil spirit pour'd, 'tis said,

One drop of Doubt into the bowl

Which, mingling darkly with the stream,
To Psyche's lips-she knew not why-
Made even that blessed nectar seem
As though its sweetness soon would die.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"COME, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life,

"There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake

"It is time you should think, boy, of taking wife”— "Why, so it is, father-whose "rife shall I take?"

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

PURE as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood
By JORDAN's stream, descended from the sky,
Is that remembrance, which the wise and good
Leave in the hearts that love them, when they
die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be,
Bequeath'd, in dying, to our souls by thee-
So shall the love we bore thee, cherish'd warm
Within our souls through grief, and pain, and
strife,

Be, like ELISHA's cruise, a holy charm,

Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.,

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

Brighton, June, 1825. THIS life, dear Corry, who can doubt ?—— Resembles much friend Ewart's' wine, When first the rosy drops come out, How beautiful, how clear they shine!

And thus awhile they keep their tint,

So free from even a shade with some, That they would smile, did you but hint, That darker drops would ever come.

1 A wine-merchant

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out,
Whatever statesmen did or said,
If not exactly brought about,

'Twas all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With NAP, if Russia went to war,

'Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar(Vide his pamphlet-price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo

As all but Frenchmen think she was'To Ned, as Wellington well knew,

Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news-no envoy's bag
E'er pass'd so many secrets through it;
Scarcely a telegraph could wag

Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in!
From Russia, chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland, owskis by the dozen.

When George, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd-who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.

For though, by some unlucky miss,

He had not downright seen the King,

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

ΤΟ

WHAT shall I sing thee? Shall I tell
Of that bright hour, remember'd well
As though it shone but yesterday,
When, loitering idly in the ray
Of a spring-sun, I heard, o'erhead,
My name as by some spirit said,
And, looking up, saw two bright eyes
Above me from a casement shine,
Dazzling my mind with such surprise

As they, who sail beyond the Line,
Feel when new stars above them rise ;-
And it was thine, the voice that spoke,
Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then;
And thine the eye, whose lustre broke→→
Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave
A song of that sweet summer-eve,
(Summer, of which the sunniest part
Was that we, each, had in the heart,)
When thou and I, and one like thee,
In life and beauty, to the sound
Of our own breathless minstrelsy,

Danced till the sunlight faded round,
Ourselves the whole ideal Ball,
Lights, music, company, and all!
Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain

Of lute like mine, whose day is past, To call up even a dream again

Of the fresh light those moments cast.