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And thou art very bold to take

What we must still deny:
I cannot tell; the charm was wrought

By other threads than mine,
The lips are lightly begg’d or bought,

The heart may not be thine!
" Yet thine the brightest smiles shall be

That ever Beauty wore,
And confidence from two or three,

And compliments from more:
And one shall give-perchance hath give17,

What only is not love;
Friendship, -oh! such as saints in heaven

Rain on us from above.
If she shall meet thee in the bower,

Or name thee in the shrine,
Oh! wear the ring, and guard the flower,

Her heart may not be thine!
"Go, set thy boat before the blast,

Tby breast before the gun:-
The haven shall be reach'd at last,

The batile shall be won:
Or muse upon thy country's laws,

Or strike thy country's lute;
And patriot hands shall sound applause,

And lovely lips be mute :
Go, dig the diamond from the wave,

The treasure from the mine;
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave,--

No woman's heart is thine!
"I charm thee from the agony

Which others feel or feign;
From anger, and froin jealousy,

From doubt, and from disdain :
I bid thee wear the scorn of years

Upon the cheek of youth,
And curl the lip at passion's tears,

And shake the head at truth :
While there is bliss in revelry,

Forgetfulness in wine,
Be thou from woman's love as free,

As woman is from thine!"
VOL. II.

17

THE BELL AT SLA.

The dangerous islet called the Bell Rook, on the coast of Fife, used formerly to be marked only by a Bell, which was so placed as to be swung hy the motion of the waves, when the tide rose above the rock. A light-house has since been erected there.

When the tide's billowy swell

Had reached its height,
Then tolled the rock's lone bell,

Sternly by night.

Far over cliff and surge

Swept the deep sound,
Making each wild wind's dirge

Suill more profound.

Yet that funereal tone

The sailor bless'd,
Steering through darkness on,

With fearless breast.

E'en so
en so may we, that float

On life's wide sea,
Welcome each warning note,

Siern though it be!

SONG.

"Oh! cast thou not
Affection from thee! in this bitter world
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast,
Watch-guard it-suffer not a breath tó dim
The bright gem's purity.”

If thou hast crush'd a flower,

The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quench'd a lamp,

Once more it may be lighted;
But on thy harp, or on thy lute,

The string which thou hast broken,
Shall never in sweet sound again

Give to thy touch a token!
If thou hast loos’d a bird,

Whose voice of song could cheer thee,
Still, still, he may be won

From the skies to warble near thee;
But if upon the troubled sea

Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded,
Hope not that wind or wave shall bring

The treasure back when needed.
If thou hast bruis'd a vine,

The Summer's breath is healing,
And its cluster yet may grow.

Through the leaves iheir bloom revealing ;
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown,

With a bright draught fill's--oh! never
Shall Earth give back that lavish'd wealtlı

To cool thy parchi'd lips' sever!
The heart is like that cup,

If thou waste the love it bore thee;

And like that jewel gone,

Which the deep will not restore thee ;
And like that string of harp or lute,

Whence the sweet sound is scatter'd-
Gently, oh! gently touch the chords,

So soon for ever shaiter'd!

THE BROKEN LUTE.

She dwelt in proud Venetian halls,
'Midst forms that breathed fromlthe pictured walls ;
But a glow of beauty like her own,
There had no dream of the painter thrown.
Lit from within was her noble brow,
As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow;
Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue,
As if ye might see how the soul wrought through ;
And every flash of her fervent eye
Seem'd the bright wakening of poesy.
Even thus it was !- from her childhood's years,-
A being of sudden smiles and tears,-
Passionate visions, quick light and shade, -
Such was that high-born Italian maid !
And the spirit of song, in her bosom cell
Dwelt, as the odors in violets dwell,
Or as the sounds in the Eolian strings,
Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings;
There, ever there, with the life enshrin'd,
And waiting the call of the faintest wind.
Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea,
In the city's hour of moonlight glee,-
Oft would that gift of the southern sky,
O'erflow from her lips in melody;
Oft amid festal halls it came,
Like the springing forth of a sudden fame-
Till the dance was hush'd, and the silvery tone
Of her inspiration was heard alone.

And Fame went with her, the bright, the crown'd,
And Music floated her sieps around;
And every lay of her soul was borne
Througia the sunny land, as on wings of morn.
And was the daughter of Venice blest,
With a rower so deep in lier youthful breast?
Could she be happy, o'er whose dark eye
So many changes and dreams went by ?
And in whose cheek the swist crimson wrought,
As if but born from the rush of thought?
-Yes! in the brightness of joy a while
She moved, as a bark in the snubeam's smile;
For her spirit, as over her lyre's full chord,
All, all on a happy love was pour'd!
How loves a heart, whence ihe stream of song
Flows like the life-blood, quick, bright, and strong?
How loves a heart which liath ever proved
One breath of tlie world?- Even so she loved!
Blest, though the lord of her soul afar,
Was charging the foremost in Niosiem war,
Bearing the Hag of St. Mark's on high,
As a ruling star in the Grecian sky.
Proud music breathed in her song, when Fame
Gave a tone more thrilling to his name;
And her trust in his love was a woman's faith
Perfect, but searing no change but death.
But the fields are won from the Ottoman host,
In the land that queli'd the Persian's boasi-
And a thousand hearts in Venice burn,
For the day of triumph and return !

-The day is cone! ihe flashing deep
Foams, where the galleys of Viclory sweep;
And the sceptred city of the wave,
With her festal splendor greets the brave ;
Cymbal and clarion, and voice around,
Make the air one stream of exulting sound,
While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles,
Look from each ball of the hundred isles.
Bat happiest and brightest that day of all,
Robed for her warrior's festival,
Moving a queen 'midst ihe radiant throng,
Was she, th' inspired one, the Maid of Song!

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