FAR above the hollow
Tempest, and its moan,
Singeth bright Apollo
In his golden zone,—
Cloud doth never shade him,
Nor a storm invade him,
On his joyous throne.
So when I behold me
In an orb as bright,
How thy soul doth fold me
In its throne of light!
Sorrow never paineth,
Nor a care attaineth,
To that blessed height.
Ir was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses,-
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet!
Oh, no-the world was newly crown'd With flowers when first we met.
"Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses,-
We pluck'd them as we pass'd!
"Tis even on the pleasant banks of Rhine
The thrush is singing and the dove is cooing;
A Youth and Maiden on the turf recline
Alone and he is wooing.
Yet woos in vain, for to the voice of love
No kindly sympathy the Maid discovers,
Though round them both, and in the air above,
The tender spirit hovers.
Untouch'd by lovely Nature and her laws,
The more he pleads, more coyly she represses;
Her lips denies, and now her hand withdraws,
Rejecting his addresses.
Fair is she as the dreams young poets weave,
Bright eyes and dainty lips and tresses curly,
In outward loveliness a child of Eve,
But cold as nymph of Lurley.
more Love tries her pity to engross,
The more she chills him with a strange behavior; Now tells her beads, now gazes on the Cross
And image of the Saviour.
Forth goes the lover with a farewell moan,
As from the presence of a thing unhuman ;-
Oh, what unholy spell hath turn'd to stone
The young warm heart of woman!
'Tis midnight-and the moonbeam, cold and wan, On bower and river quietly is sleeping,
And o'er the corse of a self-murder'd man
The Maiden fair is weeping.
In vain she looks into his glassy eyes,
pressure answers to her hands so pressing; In her fond arms impassively he lies,
Clay-cold to her caressing.
Despairing, stunn'd, by her eternal loss,
She flies to succor that may best beseem her;
But, lo! a frowning figure veils the Cross,
And hides the blest Redeemer !
With stern right hand it stretches forth a scroll,
Wherein she reads, in melancholy letters,
The cruel, fatal pact that placed her soul
And her young heart in fetters.
"Wretch sinner! renegade! to truth and God,
Thy holy faith for human love to barter!"
No more she hears, but on the bloody sod
Sinks, Bigotry's last martyr!
And side by side the hapless Lovers lie;
Tell me, harsh Priest! by yonder tragic token,
What part hath God in such a bond, whereby
Or hearts or vows are broken?
I GAZE upon a city,-
A city new and strange,—
Down many a watery vista
My fancy takes a range;
From side to side I saunter,
And wonder where I am;
And can you be in England,
And I at Rotterdam!
Before me lie dark waters
In broad canals and deep,
Whereon the silver moonbeams
Sleep, restless in their sleep;
A sort of vulgar Venice
Reminds me where I am;
Yes, yes, you are in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
Tall houses with quaint gables, Where frequent windows shine, Aud quays that lead to bridges, And trees in formal line,
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