That not of life or earth they seem'd,

But shadows from some world unknown More oft, however, 'twas the thought

How soon that scene, with all its play

Of life and gladness, must decayThose lips I prossid, the hands I caughtMyself—the crowd that mirth had brought

Around me-swept like weeds away:

To make earth's meanest slave regret

Leaving a world so soft and bright.
On one side, in the dark blue sky,
Lonely and radiant, was the eyo
Of Jove himself, while, on the other,

Mong stars that came out one by one,
The young moon—like the Roman mother

Among her living jewels—shone. “Oh that from yonder orbs,” I thought,

“ Pure and eternal as they are, “ There could to earth some power be brought, “Some charm, vith their own essence fraught.

“ To make man deathless as a star; “And open to his vast desires

“A course, as boundless and sublime “ As that which waits those comet-fires,

“ That burn and roam throughout all time !"

This thought it was that came to shed

O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys; And, close as shade with sunshine, wed

Its sadness with my happiest joys. Oh, but for this disheart'ning voice,

Stealing amid our mirth to say That all, in which we most rejoice,

Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey ; But for this bitter-only this Full as the world is brimm'd with bliss, And capable as feels my soul Of draining to its dregs the whole, I should turn earth to heav'n, and be, If bliss made Gods, a Deity!

Thou know'st that night—the very last
That ʼmong my Garden friends I passid
When the School held its feast of mirth
To celebrate our founder's birth,
And all that He in dreams but saw

When he set Pleasure on the throne
Of this bright world, and wrote her law

In human hearts, was felt and knownNot in unreal dreams, but true Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew By hearts and bosoms, that each felt Itself the realm where Pleasure dwelt.

While thoughts like these absorbid my rud,

That weariness which earthly bliss, However sweet, still leaves behind,

As if to show how earthly 'tis, Came lulling o'er me, and I laid

My limbs at that fair statue's paseThat miracle, which Art hath made

Of all the choice of Nature's graceTo which so oft I've knelt and sworn,

That, could a living maid like her Unto this wondering world be born,

I would, myself, turn worshipper.

Sleep came then o'er me and I seem'd

To be transported far away
To a bleak desert plain, where gleam'd

One single, melancholy ray,
Throughout that darkness dimly shed

From a small taper in the hand Of one, who, pale as are the dead,

Before me took his spectral stand, And said, while, awfully, a smile

Came o'er the wanness of his cheek“Go, and beside the sacred Nile

“ You'll find th' Eternal Lifo you seek.”

That night, when all our mirth was o'er,

The minstrels silent, and the feet Of the young maidens heard no more

So stilly was the time, so sweet, And such a calm came o'er that scene, Where life and revel late had beenLone as the quiet of some bay, From which the sea hath ebb’d awayThat still I linger’d, lost in thought,

Gazing upon the stars of night, Sad and intent, as if I sought

Some mournful secret in their light; And ask'd them, 'mid that silence, why Man, glorious man, alone must die, While they, less wonderful than he, Shine on through all eternity.

Soon as he spoke these words, the hue
Of death o'er all his features grew,
Like the pale morning, when o'er night
She gains the victory, full of light;
While the small torch he held became
A glory in his hand, whose flame
Brighten'd the desert suddenly,

Even to the far horizon's line
Along whose level I could see

Gardens and groves, that seem'd to shine, As if then o'er them freshly play'd A vernal rainbow's rich cascade ;

That night—thou haply may'st forget

Its loveliness—but 'twas a night

And music floated everywhere,
Circling, as 'twere itself the ait,
And spirits, on whose wings the hue
Of heaven still linger’d, round me flew,
Till from all sides such splendors broke,
That, with the excess of light, I woke !

Of Fate itself, urged me away

From Athens to this Holy Land; Where, 'mong the secrets, still untaught,

The myst'ries that, as yet, nor sun Nor eye hath reach'doh, blessed thought!

May sleep this everlasting one.

Such was my dream ;-and, I confess,

Though none of all our creedless School E’er conn'd, believed, or reverenced less

The fables of the priest-led fool,
Who tells us of a soul, a mind,
Separate and pure, within us shrined,
Which is to live-ah, hope too bright!
Forever in yon fields of light ;
Who fondly thinks the guardian eyes

Of Gods are on him-as if, blest
And blooming in their own blue skies,
Th' eternal Gods were not too wise

To let weak man disturb their rest! Though thinking of such creeds as thou

And all our Garden sages think,
Yet is there something, I allow,
In dreams like this

a sort of link With worlds unseen, which, from the hour

I first could lisp my thoughts till now, Hath master'd me with spell-like power.

Farewell-when to our Garden friends
Thou talk'st of the wild dream that sends
The gayest of their school thus far,
Wandering beneath Canopus' star,
Tell them that, wander where he will,

Or, howsoe'er they now condemn
His vague and vain pursuit, he still

Is worthy of the School and them ;Still, all their own-nor o'er forgets,

Ev'n while his heart and soul pursue Th’ Eternal Light which never sets,

The many meteor joys that do, But seeks them, hails them with delight, Where'er they meet his longing sight. And, if his life must wane away, Like other lives, at least the day, The hour it lasts shall, like a fire With incense fed, in sweets expire.

LETTER II.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

And who can tell, as we're combined
Of various atoms some refined,
Like those that scintillate and play
In the fix'd stars—some, gross as they
That frown in clouds or sleep in clay-
Who can be sure, but 'tis the best

And brightest atoms of our frame,

Those most akin to stellar flame, That shine out thus, when we're at rest ; Ev'n as the stars themselves, whose light, Comes out but in the silent night. Or is it that there lurks, indeed, Some truth in Man's prevailing creed, And that our Guardians, from on high,

Come, in that pause from toil and sin, To put the senses' curtain by,

And on the wakeful soul look in!

Memplis. 'Tis true, alas-the myst'ries and the loro I came to study on this wondrous shore, Are all forgotten in the new delights, The strange, wild joys that fill my days and nights. Instead of dark, dull oracles that speak From subterranean temples, those I seek Come from the breathing shrines where Beauty

lives, And Love, her priest, the sost responses gives Instead of honoring Isis in those rites At Coptos held, I hail her, when she lights Her first young crescent on the holy streamWhen wandering youths and maidens watch her

beam, And number o'er the nights she hath to run, Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun. While o'er some mystic leaf, that dimly lends A clue into past times, the student bends, And by its glimmering guidance learns to tread Back through the shadowy knowledge of the deadThe only skill, alas, I yet can claim Lios in deciphering somo new loved-one's nameSome gentle missive, hinting time and place, In language, soft as Memphian reed can trace.

Vain thought:--but yet, howe'er it be,
Dreams, more than once, have proved to mo
Oracles, truer far than Oak,
Or Dove, or Tripod, ever spoke.
And 'twas the words thou'lt hear and smile

The words that phantom seem'd to speak“ Go, and beside the sacred Nile

“ You'll find the Eternal Life you seek—" That, haunting me by night, by day,

At length, as with the unseen hand

If for a moment, pure and wise

And calm I feel, there quick doth fall A spark from some disturbing eyes, That through my heart, soul, being flies,

And makes a wildfire of it all. I've seen-oh, Cleon, that this earth Should e'er have giv'n such beauty birth! That man—but, hold-hear all that pass'a Since yesternight, from first to last.

Of every form and kind—from those

That down Syene's cataract shoots, To the grand, gilded barge, that rows

To tambour's beat and breath of flutes, And wears at night, in words of flame, On the rich prow, its master's name ;All were alive, and made this sea

Of cities busy as a hill
Of summer ants, caught suddenly

In the overflowing of a rill.

The rising of the Moon, calm, slow,

And beautiful, as if she came
Fresh from the Elysian bowers below,

Was, with a loud and sweet acclaim, Welcomed from every breezy height, Where crowds stood waiting for her light. And well might they who view'd the scene

Then lit up all around them, say, That never yet had Nature been

Caught sleeping in a lovelier ray, Or rivall'd her own noontide faco, With purer show of moonlight grace.

Landed upon the isle, I soon

Through marble alleys and small groves

Of that mysterious palm she loves, Reach'd the fair Temple of the Moon ; And there-as slowly through the last Dim-lighted vestibule I pass'dBetween the porphyry pillars, twined

With palm and ivy, I could see A band of youthful maidens wind,

In measured walk, half dancingly, Round a small shrine, on which was placed

That bird,' whose plumes of black and white Wear in their hue, by Nature traced,

A type of the moon's shadow'd light.

a

Memphis-still grand, though not the same

Unrivallid Memphis, that could seize From ancient Thebes the crown of Fame,

And wear it bright through centuries Now, in the moonshine, that came down Like a last smile upon that crown,Memphis, still grand, among her lakes,

Her pyramids and shrines of fire, Rose, like a vision, that half broaks On one who, dreaming still, awakes,

To music from some midnight choir : While to the west-where gradual sinks

In the red sands, from Libya rollid, Some mighty column, or fair sphynx,

That stood in kingly courts, of oldIt seem'd, as, 'mid the pomps that shono Thus gayly round him, Time look'd on, Waiting till all, now bright and bless'd, Should sink beneath him like the rest.

In drapery, liko woven snow,
These nymphs were clad; and each, below
The rounded bosom, loosely wore

A dark blue zone, or bandelet,
With little silver stars all o'er,

As are the skies at midnight, set, While in their tresses, braided through,

Sparkled that flower of Egypt's lakes, The silvery lotus, in whose hue

As much delight the young Moon takes, As doth the Day-God to behold The lofty bean-flower's buds of gold. And, as they gracefully went round

The worshipp'd bird, some to the beat
Of castanets, some to the sound

Of the shrill sistrum timed their feet;
While others, at each step they took,
A tinkling chain of silver shook.

No sooner had the setting sun
Proclaim'd the festal rite begun,
And, 'mid their idol's fullest beams,

The Egyptian world was all afloat,
Than I, who live upon these streams,

Like a young Nile-bird, turn'd my boat To the fair island, on whose shores, Through leafy palms and sycamores, Already shope the moving lights Of pilgrims hastening to the rites. While, far around, like ruby sparks Upon the water, lighted barks,

They seem'd all fair-but there was one
On whom the light had not yet shone,
Or shone but partly—so downcast
She held her brow as slow she pass'd.
And yet to me, there seem'd to dwell

A charm about that unseen face-
A something in the shade that fell

Over that brow's imagined grace,

| The Ibis.