Love told his dream of yesternight,

While Reason talk'd about the weather; The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright, And on they took their way together. The boy in many a gambol flew,

While Reason, like a Juno, stalk'd, And from her portly figure threw

A lengthen'd shadow, as she walk'd. No wonder Love, as on they pass'd, Should find that sunny morning chill, For still the shadow Reason cast

Fell o'er the boy, and cool'd him still. In vain he tried his wings to warm,

Or find a pathway not so dim, For still the maid's gigantic form

Would stalk between the sun and him.

"This must not be," said little Love"The sun was made for more than you." So, turning through a myrtle grove,

He bid the portly nymph adieu. Now gaily roves the laughing boy

O'er many a mead, by many a stream; In every breeze inhaling joy,

And drinking bliss in every beam. From all the gardens, all the bowers,

He cull'd the many sweets they shaded, And ate the fruits and smell'd the flowers, Till taste was gone and odour faded. But now the sun, in pomp of noon, Look'd blazing o'er the sultry plains; Alas! the boy grew languid soon,

And fever thrill'd through all his veins. The dew forsook his baby brow,

No more with healthy bloom he smil'dOh! where was tranquil Reason now,

To cast her shadow o'er the child? Beneath a green and aged palm,

His foot at length for shelter turning, He saw the nymph reclining calm,

With brow as cool as his was burning.

"Oh! take me to that bosom cold,”
In murmurs at her feet he said;
And Reason op'd her garment's fold,
And flung it round his fever'd head.

He felt her bosom's icy touch,

And soon it lull'd his pulse to rest; For, ah! the chill was quite too much, And Love expir'd on Reason's breast!

NAY, do not weep, my Fanny dear;
While in these arms you lie,
This world hath not a wish, a fear,
That ought to cost that eye a tear,
That heart, one single sigh.

The world!-ah, Fanny, Love must shun
The paths where many rove;
One bosom to recline upon,
One heart to be his only-one,

Are quite enough for Love.

What can we wish, that is not here Between your arms and mine? Is there, on earth, a space so dear As that within the happy sphere Two loving arms entwine?

For me, there's not a lock of jet Adown your temples curl'd, Within whose glossy, tangling net, My soul doth not, at once, forget All, all this worthless world.

"Tis in those eyes, so full of love, My only worlds I see;

Let but their orbs in sunshine move, And earth below and skies above, May frown or smile for me.

ASPASIA.

"Twas in the fair Aspasia's bower,
That Love and Learning, many an hour,
In dalliance met; and Learning smil'd
With pleasure on the playful child,
Who often stole, to find a nest
Within the folds of Learning's vest.

There, as the list'ning statesman hung
In transport on Aspasia's tongue,
The destinies of Athens took
Their colour from Aspasia's look.
Oh happy time, when laws of state,
When all that rul'd the country's fate,
Its glory, quiet, or alarms,

Was plann'd between two snow-white arms!

Blest times! they could not always lastAnd yet, ev'n now, they are not past. Though we have lost the giant mould, In which their men were cast of old, Woman, dear woman, still the same, While beauty breathes through soul or frame,

While man possesses heart or eyes, Woman's bright empire never dies!

No, Fanny, love, they ne'er shall say, That beauty's charm hath pass'd away; Give but the universe a soul Attun'd to woman's soft control,

And Fanny hath the charm, the skill, To wield a universe at will.

THE

GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM

OF THE BLESSED ISLANDS.

TO HER LOVER.

- όχι τα καλος

Πυθαγόρης, όστοι τε χορου στηρίξαν έρωτας.

Απόλλων περι Πλωτίνου, Oracul. Metric. a Joan.
Opsop. collecta.

Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray,
That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away?
Scarce hadst thou left me, when a dream of night
Came o'er my spirit so distinct and bright,
That, while I yet can vividly recall

Its witching wonders, thou shalt hear them all.
Methought I saw, upon the lunar beam,
Two winged boys, such as thy muse might dream,
Descending from above, at that still hour,
And gliding, with smooth step, into my bower.
Fair as the beauteous spirits that, all day,
In Amatha's warm founts imprison'd stay,2

It was imagined by some of the ancients that there is an ethereal ocean above us, and that the sun and moon are two floating, ninous islands, in which the spirits of the blest reside. Accordlarly we find that the word Decavog was sometimes synonymous with and death was not unfrequently called Oktavolo Topoc, or "the passage of the ocean."

* Eunapios, in his life of Tamblichus, tells us of two beautiful Inte spirits or loves, which Iamblichus raised by enchantment from the warm springs at Gadara; " dicens astantibus (says the author of the Di Fatidici, p. 160.) illos esse loci Genios:" which words, however, are not in Eunapius.

I fnd from Cellarius, that Amatha, in the neighbourhood of Cadara, was also celebrated for its warm springs, and I have prefirmed it as a more poetical name than Gadara. Cellarius quotes Heronymus. Est et alia villa in vicinia Gadaræ nomine Amatha, calidæ aquæ erumpunt."- Geograph. Antiq. lib. iii. cap. 13.

This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or "waters above the Armament," was one of the many physical errors in which the early fathers bewildered themselves. Le P. Baltus, in his " Défense des Sant Peres accusés de Platonisme," taking it for granted that the thents were more correct in their notions (which by no means Spears from what I have already quoted), adduces the obstinacy of the fathers, in this whimsical opinion, as a proof of their repugran to even truth from the hands of the philosophers. This is a trange way of defending the fathers, and attributes much more than they deserve to the philosophers. For an abstract of this work of Baltus, (the opposer of Fontenelle, Van Dale, &c. in the famous

But rise at midnight, from th' enchanted rill, To cool their plumes upon some moonlight hill.

At once I knew their mission; — 'twas to bear My spirit upward, through the paths of air, To that elysian realm, from whence stray beams So oft, in sleep, had visited my dreams. Swift at their touch dissolv'd the ties, that clung All earthly round me, and aloft I sprung; While, heav'nward guides, the little genii flew Thro' paths of light, refresh'd by heaven's own dew And fann'd by airs still fragrant with the breath Of cloudless climes and worlds that know not death.

Thou know'st, that, far beyond our nether sky,
And shown but dimly to man's erring eye,
A mighty ocean of blue ether rolls,"

Gemm'd with bright islands, where the chosen souls,
Who've pass'd in lore and love their earthly hours,
Repose for ever in unfading bowers.
That very moon, whose solitary light
So often guides thee to my bower at night,
Is no chill planet, but an isle of love,
Floating in splendour through those scas above,
And peopled with bright forms, aërial grown,
Nor knowing aught of earth but love alone.
Thither, I thought, we wing'd our airy way :-
Mild o'er its valleys stream'd a silvery day,
While, all around, on lily beds of rest,
Reclin'd the spirits of the immortal Blest.*
Oh! there I met those few congenial maids,
Whom love hath warm'd, in philosophic shades;
There still Leontium, on her sage's breast,
Found lore and love, was tutor'd and carest;
And there the clasp of Pythia's gentle arms
Repaid the zeal which deified her charms.

Oracle controversy,) see " Bibliothèque des Auteurs Ecclésiast. du 180 Siècle," part 1. tom. ii.

4 There were various opinions among the ancients with respect to their lunar establishment; some made it an elysium, and others a purgatory; while some supposed it to be a kind of entrepôt between heaven and earth, where souls which had left their bodies, and those that were on their way to join them, were deposited in the valley of Hecate, and remained till further orders. Tois wept σeλŋvmv aepɩ λέγειν αυτάς κατοικείν, και απ' αυτής κατω χωρείν εις την περιγειων γενεσιν. Stob. lib. i. Eclog. Physic.

5 The pupil and mistress of Epicurus, who called her his "dear little Leontium" (Acovтapiov), as #ppears by a fragment of one of his letters in Laertius. This Leontium was a woman of talent; "she had the impudence (says Cicero) to write against Theophrastus:" and Cicero, at the same time, gives her a name which is neither polite nor translatable. " Meretricula etiam Leontium contra Theophrastum scribere ausa est."-De Natur. Deor. She left a daughter called Danae, who was just as rigid an Epicurean as her mother; something like Wieland's Danae in Agathon.

It would sound much better, I think, if the name were Leontia, as it occurs the first time in Laertius; but M. Ménage will not hear of this reading.

6 Pythia was a woman whom Aristotle loved, and to whom after her death he paid divine honours, solemnising her memory by the same sacrifices which the Athenians offered to the Goddess Ceres. For this impious gallantry the philosopher was, of course, censured; but it would be well if certain of our modern Stagyrites showed a little of this superstition about the memory of their mistresses.

The Attic Master', in Aspasia's eyes,
Forgot the yoke of less endearing ties,
While fair Theano, innocently fair,
Wreath'd playfully her Samian's flowing hair,
Whose soul now fix'd, its transmigrations past,
Found in those arms a resting-place, at last;
And smiling own'd, whate'er his dreamy thought
In mystic numbers long had vainly sought,

The One that's form'd of Two whom love hath bound,

Is the best number gods or men e'er found.

But think, my Theon, with what joy I thrill'd, When near a fount, which through the valley rill'd, My fancy's eye beheld a form recline, Of lunar race, but so resembling thine That, oh! 'twas but fidelity in me, To fly, to clasp, and worship it for thee. No aid of words the unbodied soul requires, To waft a wish or embassy desires; But by a power, to spirits only given, A deep, mute impulse, only felt in heaven, Swifter than meteor shaft through summer skies, From soul to soul the glanc'd idea flies.

Oh, my beloved, how divinely sweet
Is the pure joy, when kindred spirits meet!
Like him, the river-god, whose waters flow,
With love their only light, through caves below,
Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids,
And festal rings, with which Olympic maids
Have deck'd his current, as an offering meet
To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.

Think, when he meets at last his fountain-bride,
What perfect love must thrill the blended tide!
Each lost in each, till, mingling into one,
Their lot the same for shadow or for sun,
A type of true love, to the deep they run.
"Twas thus-

But, Theon, 'tis an endless theme,
And thou grow'st weary of my half-told dream.
Oh would, my love, we were together now,
And I would woo sweet patience to thy brow,
And make thee smile at all the magic tales
Of starlight bowers and planetary vales,
Which my fond soul, inspir'd by thee and love,
In slumber's loom hath fancifully wove.

Socrates, who used to console himself in the society of Aspasia for those "less endearing ties" which he found at home with Xantippe. For an account of this extraordinary creature, Aspasia, and her school of erudite luxury at Athens, see L'Histoire de l'Académie, &c. tom. xxxi. p. 69. Ségur rather fails on the inspiring subject of Aspasia. "Les Femmes," tom. i. p. 122.

The Author of the "Voyage du Monde de Descartes" has also placed these philosophers in the moon, and has allotted seigneuries to them, as well as to the astronomers (part ii. p. 143.); but he ought not to have forgotten their wives and mistresses; "curæ non ipsâ in morte relinquunt."

2 There are some sensible letters extant under the name of this. fair Pythagorean. They are addressed to her female friends upon the education of children, the treatment of servants, &c. One, in particular, to Nicostrata, whose husband had given her reasons for

But no; no more-soon as to-morrow's ray
O'er soft Illissus shall have died away,
I'll come, and, while love's planet in the west,
Shines o'er our meeting, tell thee all the rest.

TO CLOE.

IMITATED FROM MARTIAL

I COULD resign that eye of blue
Howe'er its splendour used to thrill me;
And ev'n that cheek of roseate hue,-

To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me.

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, However much I've rav'd about it; And sweetly as that lip can kiss,

I think I could exist without it.

In short, so well I've learn'd to fast,
That, sooth, my love, I know not whether
I might not bring myself at last,
To-do without you altogether.

THE

WREATH AND THE CHAIN,

I BRING thee, love, a golden chain,
I bring thee too a flowery wreath;
The gold shall never wear a stain,

The flow'rets long shall sweetly breathe.
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.

The chain is form'd of golden threads, Bright as Minerva's yellow hair, When the last beam of evening sheds

Its calm and sober lustre there. The Wreath's of brightest myrtle wove, With sun-lit drops of bliss among it,

jealousy, contains such truly considerate and rational advice, that it ought to be translated for the edification of all married ladis Sec Gale's Opuscul. Myth. Phys. p. 741.

3 Pythagoras was remarkable for fine hair, and Doctor Thiers in his Histoire des Perruques) seems to take for granted it was all biown; as he has not mentioned him among those ancients who were obliged to have recourse to the "coma apposititia." L'Histoire des Perruques, chapitre i.

4 The river Alpheus, which flowed by Pisa or Olympia, and inis which it was customary to throw offerings of different kinds, during the celebration of the Olympic games. In the pretty romance of Clitophon and Leucippe, the river is supposed to carry these offerings as bridal gifts to the fountain Arethusa. Kazemi rẹp Anakvova ούτω του Αλφειον συμφοσταλεί, όταν ουν ή των ολυμπιον έποτε, κ. τ. Lib. i.

And many a rose-leaf, cull'd by Love,
To heal his lip when bees have stung it.
Come, tell me which the tie shall be,
To bind thy gentle heart to me.

Yes, yes, I read that ready eye,

Which answers when the tongue is loath, Thou lik'st the form of either tie,

And spread'st thy playful hands for both. Ah!-if there were not something wrong, The world would see them blended oft; The Chain would make the Wreath so strong! The Wreath would make the Chain so soft! Then might the gold, the flow'rets be

Sweet fetters for my love and me.

But, Fanny, so unblest they twine,

That (Heaven alone can tell the reason)
When mingled thus they cease to shine,
Or shine but for a transient season.
Whether the Chain may press too much,
Or that the Wreath is slightly braided,
Let but the gold the flow'rets touch,

And all their bloom, their glow is faded!
Oh! better to be always free,
Than thus to bind my love to me.

THE timid girl now hung her head,
And, as she turn'd an upward glance,
I saw a doubt its twilight spread

Across her brow's divine expanse. Just then, the garland's brightest rose Gave one of its love-breathing sighsOh! who can ask how Fanny chose, That ever look'd in Fanny's eyes? "The Wreath, my life, the Wreath shall be "The tie to bind my soul to thee."

ΤΟ

AND hast thou mark'd the pensive shade,
That many a time obscures my brow,
Midst all the joys, beloved maid,
Which thou canst give, and only thou?

Oh! 'tis not that I then forget

The bright looks that before me shine; For never throbb'd a bosom yet

Could feel their witchery, like mine.

When bashful on my bosom hid,

And blushing to have felt so blest, Thou dost but lift thy languid lid, Again to close it on my breast;