Is gone, as if that swift consuming wing
Had brushed the deep, which smote Assyria's King, And left his Host, like sear leaves, withering!
The sea swells full, but smooth--to Passion's thrill,
Though spent her tempest, heaves the young heart still;
A bleakness slumbers o'er it--here and there
Some desolate hull, forsaken in despair,
Drives idly, like a friendless outcast thing
Which still survives the world's abandoning.
Where are her sails-her serried tiers' display--
Her helm--her wide flag's emblemed blazonry?
Her crew of fiery spirits,-where are they?
Far scattered groups, dejected, hurried, tread
The beach in silence, where the shipwrecked dead
Lie stiff and strained. Among them (humbling thought!)
They seek their friends-yet shrink from what they
sought,
As on some corse the eye, recoiling, fell-
Though livid, swoll'n--but recognized too well!
Apart, disturbed in spirit, breathless, pale--
Her unbound tresses floating on the gale-
A Maiden hastened on ;-across her way,
As though he slept, a lifeless sailor lay.
She paused, and gazed a moment--shuddered, sank
Beside that victim on the wave-washed bank-
Bent shivering lips to press his haggard cheek,
But started backward with a loathing shriek!
Fond wretch! thy half-averted eyes discover
The cold and bloodless aspect of thy Lover!
Their tale is brief. The youth was one of those
Who spurned the thought of safety or repose
Whilst Peril stalks the deep: where'er displayed,
The flag, which sues for succour has their aid-
The foeman's or the friend's ;--no pausing then
To question who implore them--they are men!
A noble race-and, though unfamed, unknown,
A race that England should be proud to own!
He, with a few as generously brave,
Had heard the death-wail rising from the wave,
And, in an ill-starred moment, sought to save.
The lifeboat reached the foundering ship--her crew
With greedy haste secured the rope it threw,
And in the wild avidity for life,
But sealed their doom! the flashing billows roar Above their heads-one pang--they strove no more!
He did not love unloved; for she who prest
That clay-cold hand so madly to her breast,
Believ'd his vows; and but for Fortune's scorn
Young Love had smiled on this their bridal morn!
But oh, his years are few who hath not felt
That, while we grasp, the rainbow bliss will melt;
That hopes, like clouds, which gleam across the moon,
Soon pass away, and lose their light as soon!
The weltering mass she folds, but yesternight
Heaved warm with life-his rayless eye was bright;
And she whose cheek the rose of rapture spread,
Raves now a maniac--widow'd, yet unwed,--
And reckless wanderings take the place of woe!—
She fancies joys that glow not, nor can glow;
Breathes in a visionary world, and weaves
A web of bliss-scarce falser than deceives
The reasoning heart; oft sings and weeps; and now
Entwines a sea-weed garland for her brow,
And says it is a marriage wreath. Meanwhile
Her calm vague look will dawn into a smile,
As something met her eye none else should see;
She folds her hands, and bends imploringly
To sue its stay ;-with wilder gesture turns,
And clasps her head, and cries-" It burns, it burns!"
Then shakes as if her heart were ice.
The soul, the frame, could brook such bitter wrong
Beside her lover's-that distracted head
Rests calm and pale-the grave their bridal bed.
Literary Gazette.
ON PARTING WITH HIS BOOKS.
As one, who destined from his friends to part,
Regrets his loss, but hopes again, erewhile
To share their converse, and enjoy their smile,
And tempers as he may affliction's dart;
Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art,
Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,-
I now resign you! Nor with fainting heart;
For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,
And all your sacred fellowship restore;
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers,
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.
Gentleman's Magazine.
Beauty should be around the beautiful,
And these fine Arts live in an atmosphere
Of light surrounded by thrice delicate shapes
Of grace and love.
THE light came dim but beautiful, through blinds
Of the linked jessamine, which wooed the vine
With its white kisses; and the fragrant air,
Bearing low music from the wind-touched harp,
Came floating through the room. By glimpses seen,
As o'er the lattices the moonlight played
And lighted up its waters, shone the lake,
With its white swans, like spirits, gliding on
Its isles of floating lilies; and its banks,
Where swept the graceful willows and the turf,
Silvered with dew and star-light spread beneath,
Dotted with clumps of gloomy cypresses,
Mixed with the fairer blossomed orange trées.
And far beyond, like shadowy thunder-clouds,
Rose high but distant hills; and over all
A soft and blue Italian sky,—the blue
That painters and that poets love, the blue
The lover worships in the maiden's eyes,
Whose beauty is their power and spell. And, like
Sweet incense to sweet shrines, dew-scented flowers
Filled up the casements; roses, on whose leaves
The summer had just breathed; the buds of pearl
That are the myrtle's dower; carnation stems,
Rich in their perfumed blushes--all were there
Looking and breathing June. The marble floor
Had not a spot, save two or three rich stains
Cast from the pictured roof, on which was told
The history of Aurora and her love,
The earthly Youth she wooed, and wooed in vain.
Oh, love is very constant! 'Tis most cold,
Untrue, and heartless raillery, to say
That love's life is not longer than those flowers
Whose sunrise beauty is by noontide past;
That it should ever change, is but the curse
Shadowing our every earthly happiness;
But, for one record of its fickleness
Are thousand memories of its deep, deep truth,--
Its entire faith, its self-devotedness.
On one side of the roof a golden blaze,
Curtained by crimson clouds, told that the Sun,
Heralded by her star, had met his bride,
The sweet young Morning; and around, a ring
Of radiant shapes were gathered; in the midst
Was one, a very dream of loveliness,
Her hair streamed on the wind, a shower of gold
Hung from a crown of stars, and four white steeds
Were harnessed by spring blossoms to the car
Whereon she stood. Her eye was on a youth,
Graceful as young Endymion when the moon
Shed her pale smile upon his marble brow
And thick and raven curls: he stood beneath
A green beech tree, two hounds were by his side,
Impatient of his idleness, while he
Leant on his useless spear, watching the sleep
Of his young bride. He had just heard his name
Murmured, in tones low as a bird's first song
From her half opened lips, which like spring flowers:
Drank the fresh air, then sighed it forth again
With added fragrance. There was shade around;
The laurel, and the darker bay, the oak,
All sacred as the crowns of fame. The first
Bound round the Poet's tuneful lyre; the next
Around the Warrior's helm, mixed with the pine
And with the waving poplar. In the midst,
As in a favourite haunt, were flowers entwined;
And there the sleeper lay: one pearl white hand-
The violets rose to kiss its azure veins,
Coloured with their own purity, beneath
One cheek was as a pillow, and that one
Was flushed with crimson, while the other wore
A tint less warm, but not less beautiful--
Two shades of blushing on the self-same rose;
And through the tremulous shadow of the leaves
Came two or three bright kisses from the sun,
Wandering in light o'er her white brow; a shower
Of rose leaves lay amid the raven curls
Of her long hair and on her neck. That morn
Around her slender waist and graceful head
She had bound new-blown buds. But all fair things
Are very fragile, and each scattered bloom
Had fallen from the loosened braid: even those
Prisoners in the soft hand, which lay like snow
Upon the grass, had half escaped; and there
She slept amid the roses she had gathered.
And round the walls were pictures: some, calm scenes
Of earth's green loveliness; and some, whose hues
Were caught from faces in whose smile our life
Is one of Paradise; and statues, whose white grace
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