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ZULEIKA.

"WHY, with gems and jewels rare, Why, Zuleika, deck thy hair? Why so intent thy hazel eye

Upon the braid thy fingers ply?"

"Tis to be a Harem-queen,

Slave of one she ne'er hath seen;

"Tis for such a sacrifice

The victim now her magic plies.

THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

There is a tradition at Rome, that an imaginative French girl died of love for this celebrated statue.

Ir was a day of festival in Rome,

And to the splendid temple of her saint

Many a brilliant equipage swept on;

Brave cavaliers reined their impetuous steeds, While dark-robed priests and bright-eyed peasants strolled,

Mid groups of citizens, in gay attire.

The suppliant moan of the blind mendicant

Blent with the huckster's cry, the urchin's shout,
The clash of harness, and the festive cheer.
Beneath the colonnade ranged the Swiss guards
With polished halberds- —an anomaly —
Of mountain-lineage, and yet hirelings!
In the midst rose the majestic obelisk,
Quarried in Egypt, centuries by-gone;
While on either side gushed up refreshingly
The lofty fountains, flashing in the sun,
And breathing, mid the din, a whisper soft,
Yet finely musical as childhood's laugh.
Here a stranger stood in mute observance;

There an artist leaned, and pleased his eye
With all the features of the shifting scene,
Striving to catch its varying light and shade-
The mingled tints of gorgeousness and gloom.
Through the dense crowd a lovely maiden pressed
With a calm brow, an eagerness of air,

And an eye exultant with high purpose.
The idle courtier checked his ready jest,

And backward stepped in reverence, as she passed;
The friar turned and blest her fervently,
Reading the joy in her deep look of love
Which visits pilgrims when their shrine is won.
To the rich chambers of the Vatican

She hurried thoughtfully, nor turned to muse
Upon the many glories clustered there.

There are rooms whose walls are radiant still
With the creations of the early dead-
Raphael, the gifted and the beautiful.
Fit places those for sweet imaginings
And spirit-stirring dreams. She entered not.
Gems of rare hues and stranger workmanship,
Ancient sarcophagi, heroic forms,

Busts of the mighty conquerors of time,
Stirred not a pulse in that fond maiden's heart.
She staid not to peruse the classic face
Of young Augustus, nor lingered to discern
Benignity in Trajan's countenance

But sped, with fawn-like and familiar step,
Unto the threshold of a cabinet.

Her eye grew brighter, and a burning flush
Suffused her cheek, as, awe-subdued, she paused,
And, throwing back the ringlets from her brow,

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