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FROM LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHANT.

I know the place where Lewti lies,

When silent night has closed her eyes:

It is a breezy jasmine bower,

The nightingale sings o'er her head:
Voice of the Night! had I the power

That leafy labyrinth to thread,

And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, I then might view her bosom white

Heaving lovely to my sight,

As these two swans together heave
On the gently swelling wave.

Oh! that she saw me in a dream,

And dreamt that I had died for care;

All pale and wasted I would seem,
Yet fair withal, as spirits are!
I'd die indeed, if I might see

Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

MUTUAL LOVE.

Yes, yes! that boon, life's richest treat,
He had, or fancied that he had;
Say, 'twas but in his own conceit-
The fancy made him glad!

Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish!

The boon, prefigured in his earliest wish!

The fair fulfilment of his poesy,

When his young heart first yearn'd for sympathy!

But e'en the meteor offspring of the brain
Unnourish'd wane!
Faith asks her daily bread,
And Fancy must be fed!

Now so it chanced-from wet or dry,
It boots not how-I know not why-
She miss'd her wonted food: and quickly
Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly.

Then came a restless state, 'twixt yea and nay,
His faith was fix'd, his heart all ebb and flow,
Or like a bark, in some half-shelter'd bay,
Above its anchor driving too and fro.

That boon, which but to have possess'd
In a belief, gave life a zest―
Uncertain both what it had been,
And if by error lost, or luck;

And what it was:-an evergreen

Which some insidious blight had struck,

Or annual flower, which, past its blow,
No vernal spell shall e'er revive;
Uncertain, and afraid to know,

Doubts toss'd him to and fro;

Hope keeping Love, Love Hope alive,
Like babes bewilder'd in a snow,
That cling and huddle from the cold
In hollow tree or ruin'd fold.

Those sparkling colours, once his boast,
Fading, one by one away,
Thin and hueless as a ghost,

Poor Fancy on her sick bed lay;
Ill at distance, worse when near,
Telling her dreams to jealous Fear!

Where was it then, the sociable sprite

That crown'd the Poet's cup and deck'd his dish?
Poor shadow cast from an unsteady wish,
Itself a substance by no other right
But that it intercepted Reason's light;
It dimm'd his eye, it darken'd on his brow,
A peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow!
Thank Heaven! 'tis not so now.

O bliss of blissful hours!

The boon of Heaven's decreeing,

While yet in Eden's bowers

Dwelt the First Husband and his sinless Mate!

The one sweet plant, which, piteous Heaven agreeing,
They bore with them through Eden's closing gate!
Of life's gay summer-tide the sovran Rose!

Late autumn's Amaranth, that more fragrant blows
When Passion's flowers all fall or fade;

If this were ever his, in outward being,
Or but his own true love's projected shade,
Now that at length by certain proof he knows,
That whether real or a magic show,

Whate'er it was, it is no longer so;

Though heart be lonesome, Hope laid low,
Yet, Lady! deem him not unblest:
The certainty that struck hope dead,
Hath left contentment in her stead;
And that is next to best.

JOB'S BEREAVEMENTS.

Sly Beelzebub took all occasions
To try Job's constancy, and patience.
He took his honour, took his health;
He took his children, took his wealth,
His servants, oxen, horses, cows-
But cunning Satan did not take his spouse.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil,
And loves to disappoint the devil,
Had predetermined to restore
Twofold all he had before;

His servants, horses, oxen, cows-
Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse!

FANCY IN NUBIBUS, OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS.

O! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
Or let the easily persuaded eyes

Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould
Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low

And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold

"Twixt crimson banks; and then, a traveller, go From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land!

Or listening to the tide, with closed sight, Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand By those deep sounds possess'd, with inward light Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS.

From his brimstone bed at break of day
A-walking the Devil is gone,

To visit his little snug farm of the earth,

And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale,
And he went over the plain,

And backwards and forwards he switch'd his long tail
As a gentleman switches his cane.

And how then was the Devil dress'd?

Oh! he was in his Sunday's best:

His jacket was red and his breeches were blue,

And there was a hole where the tail came through.

He saw a Lawyer killing a Viper
On a dung-heap beside his stable,

And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind
Of Cain and his brother, Abel.

A Pothecary on a white horse

Rode by on his vocations,

And the Devil thought of his old friend
Death in the Revelations.

He saw a cottage with a double coach-house,
A cottage of gentility!

And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin
Is pride that apes humility.

He went into a rich bookseller's shop-
Quoth he, We are both of one college;
For I myself sate like a cormorant once
Fast by the tree of knowledge.

Down the river there plied, with wind and tide,
A pig, with vast celerity;

And the Devil look'd wise, as he saw how the while
It cut its own throat. There! quoth he, with a smile,
Goes "England's commercial prosperity."

As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw
A solitary cell,

And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint
For improving his prisons in hell.

General

-'s burring face

He saw with consternation,

And back to hell his way did he take,
For the Devil thought, by a slight mistake,
It was general conflagration.

LOVE.

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

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