How blest could I live, and how calm could I die! By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips, In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips, Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine!" A SPIRIT THERE IS. A SPIRIT there is, whose fragrant sigh Is making the stream around them tremble. Jail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power! hy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this, By the fair and brave, *The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere, and in Persia. Like the sun and wave, By the tear that shows By the first love-beat By all that thou hast Which-oh! could it last. This earth were heaven! We call thee hither, entrancing power! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this. TELL ME NOT OF JOYS ABOVE. TELL me not of joys above, If that world can give no bliss, Truer, happier than the love Which enslaves our souls in this! Tell me not of Houris' eyes; Far from me their dangerous glow, If those looks that light the skies Wound like some that burn below! Who that feels what love is here, Who, that midst a desert's heat I KNOW WHERE THE WING'D. I KNOW where the wing'd visions dwell To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. The image of love, that nightly flies Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs The hope in dreams, of a happier hour Springs out of the silvery-almond flower, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. The visions, that cft to wordly eyes To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade The dream of the injur'd, patient mind, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. "The Almond-tree, with white flowers, blossoms on the bare branches." Hasselquist. An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate a yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other animals that graze upon it. WHEN THE ROSEBUD. WHEN the rosebud of summer its beauty be-stowing, 'On winter's rude banks all its sweetness shall pour, And the sunshine of day in night's darkness be glowing, O, then, dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more. When of hope the last spark which they smile lov'd to cherish, In my bosom shall die, and its splendour be o'er, And the pulse of that heart which adores you shall perish, O, then, dearest Ellen, I'll love you no more. (The following lines, from the pen of THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. are to be engraved on the monument about to be erected to the memory of his late friend, JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. of Dublin.) I ever lot was prosperously cast, If ever life was like the lengthened flow Of some sweet music,-sweetness to the last, 'Twas his who, mourn'd by many, sleeps below. The sunny temper,-bright when all is strife, The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles Light wit that plays along the calm of life, And stirs its languid surface into smiles; |