An angel, wand'ring from her sphere,
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem,
To dew-ey'd Pity brought the tear,
And hung it on her diadem.

COME HITHER, COME HITHER.

COME hither, come hither—by night and by day,

We linger in pleasures that never are gone; Like the waves of the summer, as one dies

away,

Another as sweet and as shining comes on. And the Love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth

To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in bliss ; And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh

As the flower of the Amra just op'd by a

bee ;*

And precious their tears as that rain from the

sky, t

Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worth,

Delightful are the flowers of the Arma trees on the mountain tops, while the murmuring bees pursue their voluptuous toil." Song of Jayadeva.

The Nisan or drops of spring rain, which they believe to produce pearls if they fall into shells." Richardson.

When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in

bliss;

And own if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

Here sparkles the nectar that, hallowed by love, Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere,

Who for wine of this earth* left the fountains above,

And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we have here.

And bless'd with the odour our goblet gives fourth,

What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would

miss?

For oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this.

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrels have told,

When two that are link'd in one heavenly

tie,

With heart never changing and brow never cold,

Love on through all ills, and love on till they

die!

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss: And oh if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.

*For an account of the share which wine had in the fall of the angels. v. Mariti.

FLY TO THE DESERT.

FLY to the desert, fly with me,

Our Arab tents are rude for thee;

But oh! the choice what heart can doubt Of tents with love or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there Th' acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less For flowering in the wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope

As gracefully and gayly springs

As o'er the marble courts of kings.

Then come-thy Arab maid will be
The lov'd and lone acacia tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes
Predestin'd to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!

So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breath'd and shone;

New as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if lov'd for years!

Then fly with me-if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away that thou hast sworn,
Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.*

But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worship'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place ;-

Then, fare thee well-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love as false as thine!

FROM CHINDARA'S WARBLING.

FROM CHINDARA's† warbling fount I come, Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell; From CHINDARA's fount, my fairy home, Where in music, morn and night, I dwell;

The hudhud, or lapwing, is supposed to have the power of discovering water under ground.

"A fabulous fountain, where instruments are said to be constantly playing.--Richardson.

Where lutes in the air are heard about,

And voices are singing the whole day long, And every sigh the heart breaths out

Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song
Hither I come

From my fairy home,

And if there's a magic in Music's strain,
I swear by the breath

Of that moonlight wreath,

Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again.

For mine is the lay that lightly floats,
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea,
And melt in the heart as instantly!
And the passionate strains that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through,
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing,
Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too!

Mine is the charm, whose mistic sway
The Spirits of past delight obey ;—
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,

And they come, like Geni, hovering round.
And mine is the gentle song that bears,
From soul to soul, the wishes of love,
As a bird, that wafts through genial airs
The cinnamon seed from grove to grove.*

'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure;

The Pampadour pigeon is the species which, by carrying the fruit of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valuable tree." V. Brown's Illustr. Tab. 19.