Such dear, beguiling minstrelsy
Would make the coldest nymph his own!

But, hark!-the boatswain's pipings tell
'Tis time to bid my dream farewel :
Eight bells!-the middle watch is set;
Good night, my STRANGFORD!-ne'er forget
That, far beyond the Western Sea

Is one, whose heart remembers thee!

STANZAS.

Θυμος δε ποτ' εμος.........

με προσφωνει ταδε

Γίνωσκε τανθρωπεια μη σεβειν αγαν.

Eschyl. Fragment.

A BEAM of tranquillity smil'd in the West,

The storms of the morning pursued us no more, And the wave, while it welcom'd the moment of rest, Still heav'd, as remembering ills that were o'er!

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,

Its passions were sleeping, were mute as the dead, And the spirit becalm❜d but remember'd their power, As the billow the force of the gale that was fled!

I thought of the days, when to pleasure alone
My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;
When the saddest emotion my bosom had known
Was pity for those who were wiser than I!

I felt, how the pure, intellectual fire

In luxury loses its heavenly ray;
How soon, in the lavishing cup of desire,

The pearl of the soul may be melted away!

And I pray'd of that Spirit, who lighted the flame,

That pleasure no more might its purity dim; And that sullied but little, or brightly the same, I might give back the gem I had borrow'd from him!

The thought was extatic! I felt as if Heaven
Had already the wreath of eternity shown;
As if, passion all chasten'd and error forgiven,
My heart had begun to be purely its own!

I look'd to the West, and the beautiful sky

Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more"Oh! thus," I exclaim'd, "can a heavenly Eye

"Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before !"

THE

TELL-TALE LYRE.

I'VE

'VE heard there was in ancient days

A Lyre of most melodious spell ; 'Twas heaven to hear its fairy lays, If half be true that legends tell.

'Twas play'd on by the gentlest sighs, And to their breath it breath'd again

In such entrancing melodies

As ear had never drunk till then!

Not harmony's serenest touch

So stilly could the notes prolong; They were not heavenly song so much As they were dreams of heavenly song!

If sad the heart, whose murmuring air
Along the chords in languor stole,
The soothings it awaken'd there

Were eloquence from Pity's soul!

Or if the sigh, serene and light,

Was but the breath of fancied woes, .
The string, that felt its airy flight,
Soon whisper'd it to bland repose!

And oh! when lovers burn'd alone,
If, 'mid their bliss, the Lyre was near,
It made their murmurs all its own,

And echoed notes that heav'n might hear!

There was a nymph, who long had lov'd,
But dar'd not tell the world how well:
The shades, where she at evening rov'd
Alone could know, alone could tell.

'Twas there, at twilight-time, she stole
So oft, to make the dear-one blest,
Whom love had giv'n her virgin soul,
And nature soon gave all the rest!

Within a cave, where many an hour
Their bliss had found its secret bed,
A Lyre, of this enchanted power,

Hung, nightly-wispering o'er their head!

Oh! think, with every breath that mov'd
From lips, so thrilling warm as theirs,
Think how, with every sigh, it lov'd
To mingle its dissolving airs!

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