*These verses, written about his sixteenth year, have been sent us by our old friend, a late physician, who informs us that they have not hitherto appeared in print. How could he doubt whether we would "oblige him by inserting them ?”—C. N. And shed a deathless spell along Each grove's sweet gloom in Psyche's song!* In vain Burnane, the thunder-riven, Far northward cleft the summer heaven, Or on the horizon stretched away, And spoke as speechless glances speak Whilst I sat duteous at her feet. III. We never met before, and knew We nevermore should meet again; For seaward at that moment blew The breeze should bear her o'er the main, O'er half hoarse Ocean's sounding foam, To light with love another's home, And be to me, through years afar, Lone memory's deeply-mirrored star. And yet we talked not sadly there, But wished our barks of life had been Together wafted earlier, ere Ďark Fate had heaved its gulf be tween. And still I asked in trembling tone, wont In that far land, at fall of day, Lulled by cool breeze and tinkling font, To sleep the sultry eve away, I vowed if minstrel spirit might Spring from its earthly fetters free, That ever at that hour my sprite Should in her bower attendant be, And whisper mid the odours shed By gathered roses round her head, Or mix my memory with the wail Of song from neighbouring nightingale, Or babbling in the waters' fall, To her hushed ear my name recall. Was blushing cheek and bended eye, Whose very life's essential bloom Would hardly rustle in the sail now Low at her feet devoted bow, IV. Fast died the day-on Galty Peak moon, When gay companions thronging round Proclaimed the fugitives were found, And festive mirth rushed in between, And all was as it ne'er had been. -We met no more-that revel past, Our first sweet meeting was the last. V. And years have gone-and time has stolen Hope from the heart, light from the eye And feelings then, all passion-swollen, VI. And still that dreaming bard will think * This beautiful spot was occasionally the residence of Mrs. H. Tighe, the Ar thor of Psyche. Look on me well, and carly steep thy soul Fresh airs shall breathe while sweltering thunders roll, A crystal stream Whose mountain-language was the same as mine,— And truth the world went ill with them ;-he knew What her unpractised weakness was to her They asked their kind for hope, but there was none, |