Or spirit of the air, before me stood,
And held communion with me. In mine ear
Her voice's sweet notes, breathed not of the earth;
Her beauty seemed not of a mortal birth;
And in my heart, there was an awful fear,
A thrill, like some deep warning from above,
That soothed its passion to a spirit's love!
She stood before me, the pure lamps of heaven
Lighted her charms, and those soft eyes, which turned
On me with dying fondness.—My heart burned,
As tremblingly with her's my vows were given.
Then, softly! 'gainst my bosom, beat her heart!
These loving arms around her form were thrown,
Binding her heavenly beauty, like a zone;
While from her ruby, warm lips, just apart,
Like bursting roses, sighs of fragrance stole ;
And words of music, whispering in mine ear,
Things pure and holy, none but mine should hear.
For they were accents uttered from her soul;
For which, no tongue her innocence reproved.
And breathed for one who loved her-and was loved!
She hung upon my bosom-and her sighs,
Fragrant and fast, were warm upon my cheek;
And they were all her suffering heart could speak,
Save the soft language of her eloquent eyes,
Which the night hid not, for her soul was there,
In starry brightness,-tempered by distress,-
All softened down with love's own tenderness;
And some wild tokens of her heart's despair
Were trembling o'er her beauty. There was one
Who would not have exchanged that sorrowing hour,
For all that he had dreamed in rapture's bower.
In the wide world there was one heart alone,
That blessed him with its love, and truth, and charms,-
And it was beauty, now, within his arms!
They loved for years with growing tenderness.
They had but one pure prayer to waft above,
One heart, one hope,-one dream,-and that was love;
They loved for years, through danger and distress,
Till they were parted, and his spotless fame
Became the mark of hate and obloquy;
'Till the remembering tear that dimmed her eye,
Was dried on blushes of repentant shame.
While he-oh God!-in raptured vision sweet,
Would walk alone beneath the evening star,
Watching the light she loved, and dream of her,
And of the hour, when they again should meet!
They met at last ;-but love's sweet vision fled
Forever from his heart,-for she was wed!—
Dublin Magazine.
BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.
WHERE are ye with whom in life I started,
Dear companions of my golden days?
Ye are dead, estranged from me, or parted;
Flown like morning clouds, a thousand ways.
Where art thou, in youth my friend and brother?
Yea in my soul, my friend and brother still!
Heaven received thee, and on earth none other
Can the void in my lorn bosom fill.
Where is she whose looks were love and gladness?
Love and gladness I no longer see;
She is gone, and since that hour of sadness
Nature seems her sepulchre to me.
Where am I? Life's current faintly flowing,
Brings the welcome warning of release;
Struck with death; ah! whither am I going?
All is well, my spirit parts in peace.
WRITTEN ON THE PLATFORM AT BERNE.
THREE days of chequered smiles and tears,
Such changeful cheer as Autumn wears,
Still have I sought this spot to gaze
On yon rich work of Gothic days,-
That proud Cathedral, perfect still;
Or, fairer yet, this noble hill,
Whose ridge patrician mansions crown,
And terraced gardens sloping down,
Where murmuring in its rapid flow
Broad winds the clear blue Aar below.
Nor deemed I aught might hence be seen
Beyond that swelling slope of green!
But now what vision mocks my sight?
Those summits of eternal white,
More than the eye may count around,
Stretched to the horizon's farthest bound.
See Him* whose fine and painted horn
Rises to meet the earliest morn,
And bask in day, while deepest night
Still blackens each surrounding height;—
And Shef whose glittering dells are known
To sprites of middle-air alone,—
The virgin on whose frozen breast
A shadowy eagle loves to rest,
And spreads his mighty pinions dun
To shield her from the amorous sun,
When all the lingering beam he throws,
She blushes through her waste of snows,
And all her brother Alps around
Are with a roseate glory crowned.
*The Finster-Aar-Horn, the highest of the Bernese Alps. The Jungfrau, or Virgin's Horn, so called from the belief that it is inaccessible.
All save the Shreckhorn's dreadful peak,
For ever black, and bare, and bleak;
For not a sprite that comes to throw
The soft and velvet veil of snow,
That dresses other heights, will dare
To plant his venturous footsteps there!
Ye mountains! have your peaks sublime
Scorned all the wasting power of time,
Unchanged since first the world began,
'Mid all the changing fates of man.
Eagles of Austria, Rome and Gaul,
Lour! for these heights have mocked you all.
Ye thought these realms an easy spoil;
They foiled you, and shall ever foil;
For freedom lives her flag to rear
Where hills are proud and steeps are clear.
And who that knows these velvet vales,
These pine-clad steeps-these healthful gales,
These glittering peaks to conqueror's hand
Will ever yield the lovely land?
Helvetia, trust the prophet prayers,
A sister spirit breathes and shares;
Albion, though distant, still allied
By kindred feelings, kindred pride,-
Where winds beneath the solar course
Blow with unerring, changeless force;
The slave may fear a tyrant's nod,
The humbled soul may kiss the rod,
But here, our spirits more sublime,
Are, like our seasons, unconfined;
There's vigour in the changing clime,
And freedom breathes in every wind.
Literary Gazette.
It was at once a delightful and terrible sight to see the Spartans marching on to the tunes of their flutes, without ever troubling their order, or confounding their ranks; their music leading them into danger with a deliberate hope and assurance, as if some Divinity had sensibly assisted them.
"Twas morn upon the Grecian hills,
Where peasants dressed the vines ;
There was sun-light on Cithaeron's rills,
Arcadia's rocks and pines;
And brightly through his reeds and flowers
Eurotas wandered by,
When a sound arose from Spartan towers
Of solemn harmony.
Was it the shepherd's choral strain
That hymned the forest-God?
Or the virgins as to Pallas' fane
With their full-toned lyres they trod?
But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day;
And the mountain echoes of the land
Swelled through the deep blue sky,
While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die. ·
They marched not with the trumpet's blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out;
And the laurel woods as on they passed,
Rung with no battle shout!
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