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The waving walls, were touch'd with tender

gloom. She was unveil'd, and yet the shawl of green, That wreathed its thick-pearld fringe her locks

between, Threw shadow, dim and deep, upon her bloom ; But slight the tinge the Afric sun had thrown Upon her cheek, the eye dark diamond shone. She sat beneath a lamp of figured gold, That on her turban pour'd a dazzling flame. Her minstrel-tale of wonder had been told, Her hand was resting on the harp's rich frame; She gave one glance : her cheek seem'd flush'd

with shame. She cast upon the ground her startled eye; She swept the harp,- no song accordant came ; Her bosom through its caftan panted high ; But all her voice was one deep, painful sigh. The high assemblage, sympathizing, gazed On her strange beauty and her sudden pain. Their plaudits proud her sinking spirit raised, She bow'd, and, blushing, she renew'd the strain. Her red lip smiled, as if in sweet disdain Of its late check : she lightly touched the string, And tried an air of sportiveness again : Again her hand, her voice seem'd wandering ;She dried a tear, and gave her prison'd anguish

wing.

“ Farewell, my gentle harp, farewell,

Thy task shall soon be done,
And she who loved thy lonely spell

Shall, like its tones, be gone;
Gone to the bed, where mortal pain
Pursues the weary heart in vain.

“ I shed no tears, light passes by
The
pang

that melts in tears,
The stricken bosom that can sigh,

No mortal arrow bears.
When comes the heart's true agony,
The lip is hush'd, and calm the eye.
« And mine has come, no more I weep,

No longer passion's slave,
My sleep must be th' unwaking sleep,

My bed must be the grave.
Through my wild brain no more shall move,
Or hope, or fear, or joy, or love.”

REV. W. L. BOWLES.

SOUTH AMERICAN SCENERY. BENEATH aerial cliffs, and glittering snows, The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose, Chief of the mountain tribes ; high, overhead, The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread, Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires, And Chillan trail'd its smoke and smould'ring fires.

A glen beneath—a lonely spot of rest— Hung, scarce discover'd, like an eagle's nest.

Summer was in its prime ;--the parrot- flocks Darken’d the passing sunshine on the rocks ; The chrysomel and purple butterfly, Amid the clear blue light, are wand'ring by ;

z

The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'rs,
With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flow'rs;
The woodpecker is heard with busy bill,
The mock-bird sings—and all beside is still.
And look! the cataract that bursts so high,
As not to mar the deep tranquillity,
The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,
And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends ;
Through whose illumin'd spray and sprinkling

dews, Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues. Check'ring, with partial shade, the beams of

noon, And arching the gray rock with wild festoon, Here, its gay net-work, and fantastic twine, The purple cogul threads from pine to pine, And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe, Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens

white, The sunshine darts its interrupted light, And ʼmid the cedar's darksome bough, illumes, With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes.

LEIGH HUNT.

MORNING.

OPENING OF THE STORY OF RIMINI.

The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May
Round old Ravenna's clear-shewn towers and bay,
A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green ;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And there's a crystal clearness all about ;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out ;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze ;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees ;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil ;
And all the scene, in short-sky, earth, and sea-
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out

openly.

'Tis nature, full of spirits, wak'd and springing :
The birds to the delicious time are singing,
Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
Where the light woods go seaward from the town ;
While happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen ;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light,
Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the

bay.

JAMES HOGG,

FROM MADOR OF THE MOOR. The rainbow's lovely in the eastern cloud, The rose is beauteous in the beaded thorn,

Sweet is the evening song from purple shroud,
And sweet the orient blushes of the morn;
Sweeter than all the beauties that adorn
The female form in youth and maiden bloom.
0! why should passion ever man suborn
To work the sweetest flower of nature's doom,
And cast o'er all her joys a veil of cheerless gloom !

O! fragile flower ! that blossoms but to fade !
One slip recovery or recall defies;
Thou walk'st the dizzy verge with steps unstaid,
Fair as the habitants of yonder skies,
Like them thou fallest, never more to rise.
O! fragile flower, for thee my heart's in pain !
Haply a world is hid from mortal eyes,
Where thou may'st smile in purity again,
And shine in virgin-bloom that ever shall remain.

SANUEL ROGERS.

EVENING SCENE.
FROM THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

TWILIGHT's soft dews steal o'er the village green,
With magic tints to harmonize the scene;
Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke,
When round the ruins of their ancient oak
The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play,
And games and carols closed the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more
With treasured tales, and legendary lore.
All, all are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows
To chase the dreams of innocent repose.

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