DREAMS.

How many rise impatient with the dawn
Illuded in their chase of happiness,

Yet chasing still th' illusion! slaves to Hope
That dupes them. Shine, my bed's mute visitant,
Thou moon! whose orb, like an ensanguin'd shield
Leans on heaven's reddening verge, till slow it climbs,
And lessens as it climbs, and, soaring high

On the blue calm of ether, sheds abroad
A snowy splendour. Through my heart I feel
Thy influence glide: thy beams of lambent light
Steal on mine eyes, and swimming slumber veils
The consciousness of vision. Then succeed

A new existence, scenes of fairy land,

Limbs wing'd with thought and pulses throbbing joy.

The lover-no! reality itself

Scarce equals that dear moment, when he grasps
The hand so long withheld, that trembles soft

Within his trembling pressure: when his eyes

Drink in the lucid languishment of look

That thrills the shivering nerves; the mystic glance
Avowing all unutterable things,

And kindling hope to madness. Rise not yet
Unwelcome sun! for never shall he know

So sweet a moment: never, though he clasp
The idol object, feel an hour like that,
When ev'n impossibility gave way

At Fancy's bidding, and the leaning cheek,

The lip's warm fragrance and the whisper low,
First felt and heard in credulous ecstacy,

Mingled the zest of mystery with bliss,

The tumult of amazement ! Now the soul

Works subtle sorcery: oceans interposed

Shrink, and are dry: the friend, whom tented fields

Had sever'd from thee, sits beside thee now,

As in time past: the self-same oak above
Spreads its deep canopy the rivulet sends
The same cool murmur to thy tranquil ear:

And sweet it is with limbs in the green shade
Outstretch'd, in converse with the man thou lovest,
To feel the palpable quick joy of time,

That gliding with that babbling rivulet's haste
Leaves music on the soul:-and is life lost

In scenes like these? then seek the garish day,
And court the smiling treachery of the glance
That tempts thee to be wretched, or embrace
The hollow friendship which thou clasp'st in vain.

THE ACACIA.

PARAPHRASEd from vigée.

(This tree was planted in one of the courts of the prison of Port Libre. The original ode was written during the reign of terror in France.)

FAIR plant, that impending with tremulous boughs Dost shed wide beneath thee a tutelar shade

Whose leaves whisper sweet to the love-breathing vows, And veil with their twilight the blush of the maid: Oh blest is thy lot! when the mantle of night With sable invests the blue glare of the skies; Thy verdure-bound root is the throne of delight, And love to thy arborous canopy flies.

By thee, favour'd plant! in mute witness are seen The hand that soft trembles when tremblingly prest; And innocence bashful with languishing mien,

And still unresenting, still sweetly distrest:

And the lip that in modest embarrassment steals
From lips unaverted the nectarine sigh;

And the tender confusion that rapturous feels

The kiss which reserve had forgot to deny.

In the moon shine that hovering fell white o'er the shade,
How oft like a wave of the ocean heaved high,
Has the slow-rising bosom the wishes betray'd
That lurk'd in the lid of the down-gazing eye!
When timidly venturous resistlessly stole

Avowals that falter'd in eloquent fear;

Those words half-suspended, those murmurs of soul,
That never were breathed to insensible ear:
Or the cheek soft-approaching in licence of grief
Felt the tears warmly glide from the cheek that it
sought,

And the mutual dependence of blissful relief

Mingled love unawares with the tumult of thought. Oh fair mayst thou flourish! oh never to fade

The bower which thy branch thus luxuriantly weaves; Though winter's cold eye freeze thy desolate shade,

May the vernal sun smile on thy blossomy leaves.