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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 re

cline, And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips, Which had never been sigh’d on by any but

mine!"

A SPIRIT THERE IS.

A SPIRIT there is, whose fragrant sigh

Is burning now, through earth and air, Where cheeks are blushing, the spirit is nigh,

Where lips are meeting, the spirit is there! "Iis breath is the soul of flowers like these,

And his floating eyes-oh! they resemble Blue water-lillies,* when the breeze Is making the stream around them tremble.

fail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power! Spirit of love, spirit of bliss ! hy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as

this,

By the fair and brave,

Who blushing unite.

* The blue lolos, which grows in Cashmere, and in Persia.

Like the sun and wave,

When they meet at night!

By the tear that shows

When passion is nigh,
As the rain-drop flows

From the heat of the sky!

By the first love-beat

Of the youthful heart,
By the bliss to meet,

And the pain to part !

By all that thou hast

To mortals given,
Which--oh! could it last.

This earth were heaven !

We call thee hither, entrancing power!

Spirit of love! spirit of bliss ! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as

this.

TELL ME NOT OF JOYS ABOVE.

Tell me not of joys above,

If that world can give no bliss,
Truer, happier than the love

Which enslaves our souls in this!

Tell me not of Houris' eyes;

Far from me their dangerous glow,

If those looks that light the skies

Wound like some that burn below!

Whó that feels what love is here,

All its falsehood, all its pain,
Would, for e’en Elysium's sphere,

Risk the fatal dream again.

Who, that midst a desert's heat

Sees the waters fade away,
Would not rather die than meet

Streams again as false as they ?

I KNOW WHERE THE WING’D.

I know where the wing'd visions dwell

That around the night-bed play ;
I know each herb and flowret's bell,
Where they hide their wings by day.

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The image of love, that nightly flies

To visit the bashful maid,
Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs

Its soul, like her, in the shade.
The hope in dreams, of a happier hour

That alights on misery's brow,

Springs out of the silvery-almond flower,
That blooms on a leafless bough.*

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade:

The visions, that oft to wordly eyes

The glitter of mines unfold,
Inhabit the mountain herb,t that dies

The tooth of the fawn like gold.
The phantom shapes—oh touch not them-

That appal the murderer's sight,
Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem,
That shrieks when torn at night!

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

The dream of the injur'd, patient mind,

That smiles at the wrongs of men,
Is found in the bruis'd and wounded rind
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then !

Then hasten we, maid,

To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fad.

« The Almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the bare branches." Hasselquist.

† An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communica la a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other ani. mals that grace upon

it.

WHEN THE ROSEBUD.

When the rosebud of summer its beauty be

stowing, On winter's rude banks all its sweetness shall

pour, And the sunshine of day in night's darkness be

glowing, 0, then, dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more.

When of hope the last spark which they smile

lov'd to cherish, In my bosom shall die, and its splendour be

o'er, And the pulse of that heart which adores you

shall perish, 0, then, dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more.

(The following lines, from the pen of THOMAS MOORE, Esq. are to be engraved on the monument about to be crected to the memory of his late friend, Joseph ATKINSON, Esq. of Dublin.)

Tr ever lot was prosperously cast,

If ever life was like the lengthened flow Of some sweet music,-sweetness to the last, 'Twas his who, mourn'd by many, sleeps be

low. The sunny temper,-bright when all is strife,

The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles I sight wit that plays along the calm of life, And stirs its languid surface into smiles ;

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