STANZAS.

Θύμος δε ποτ' εμος

...............

με προσφώνει ταδι

Γίνωσκε τανθρώπεια μη σεβειν αγαν.

Eschyl. Fragment,

A BEAM of tranquillity smil'd in the west, The storms of the morning pursued us no

more,

And the wave, while it welcom'd the moment of rest,

Still heav'd, as remembering ills that were o'er !

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour. Its passions were sleeping, were mute as

the dead,

And the spirit becalm'd but remember'd their power,

As the billow the force of the gale that was

fled!

I thought of the days, when to pleasure alone My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh; When the saddest emotion my bosom had known

Was pity for those who were wiser than I !

I felt how the pure, intellectual fire
In luxury loses its heavenly ray;
How soon, in the lavishing cup of desire,

The pearl of the soul may be melted away!

And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame,

That pleasure no more might its purity dim ; And that sullied but little, or brightly the

same,

I might give back the gem I had borrow'd from him!

The thought was ecstatic! I felt as if Heaven

Had already the wreath of eternity shown ; As if, passion all chasten'd and error forgiven, My heart had begun to be purely its own!

I look'd to the west, and the beautiful sky Which morning had clouded, was clouded

no more:

"Oh! thus," I exclaim'd, " can a heavenly

eye

"Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before!

THE TELL-TÁLE LYRE.

I've heard, there was in ancient days
A Lyre of most melodious spell;
'Twas heav'n to hear its fairy lays,
If half be true that legends tell.

'Twas play'd on by the gentlest sighs, And to their breath it breath'd again In such entrancing melodies

As ear had never drunk till then!

Not harmony's serenest touch

So stilly could the notes prolong;
They were not heavenly song so much
As they were dreams of heavenly song!
If sad the heart, whose murmuring air
Along the chords in langupr stole,
The soothings it awaken'd there
Were eloquence from pity's soul!
Or if the sigh, serene and light,
Was but the breath of fancied woes,
The string, that felt its airy flight,
Soon whisper'd it to kind repose

And oh when lovers talk'd alone,
If, mid their bliss the Lyre was near,
It made their murmurs all its own,
And echoed notes that heav'n might hear!
There was a nymph, who long had lov'd,
But dar'd not tell the world how well;
The shades, where she at evening rov'd,
Alone could know, alone could tell.

'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole

So oft, to make the dear-one bless'd, Whom love had giv'n her virgin soul, And nature soon gave all the rest!

It chanc'd that in the fairy bower

Where they had found their sweetest shed,
This lyre, of strange and magic power,
Hung gently whispering o'er their head.

And while, with eyes of mingling fire,
They listen'd to each other's vow,
The youth full oft would make the Lyre
A pillow for his angel's brow!

And while the melting words she breath'd
On all its echoes wanton'd round,
Her hair, amid the strings enwreath'd,
Through golden mazes charm'd the sound!

Alas! their hearts but little thought, While thus entranc'd they listening lay, That every sound the Lyre was taught Should linger long, and long betray!

So mingled with its tuneful soul

Were all their tender murmurs grown, That other sighs unanswered stole,

Nor chang'd the sweet, the treasur'd tone.

Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung

To every passing lip that sigh'd; The secrets of thy gentle tongue On every ear in murmurs died!

The fatal Lyre, by envy's hand

Hung high, amid the breezy groves, To every wanton gale that fann'd

Betray'd the mystery of your loves!

Yet, oh!-not many a suffering hour,
Thy cup of shame on earth was giv’n;
Benignly came some pitying Power,
And took the Lyre and thee to Heaven!

There as thy lover dries the tear

Yet warm from life's malignant wrongs, Within his arms, thou lov'st to hear The luckless Lyre's remember'd songs!

Still do your happy souls attune

The notes it learn'd, on earth, to move; Still breathing o'er the chords, commune In sympathies of angel love!

TO THE FLYING-FISH.*

When I have seen thy snowy wing
O'er the blue wave at evening spring,

It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful circumstance which can tend to prove a Kindred similitude between them ; συγγένειαν τοις πετομένοις προς τα νηκτα. With this thought in our minds when we first see the Flying-Fish, we could almost fancy, that we are present at the moment of creation, and witness the birth of the first bird from the waves.