Behold the leafy mangrove, bending
O'er the waters blue and bright,
Like Nea's silky lashes, lending
Shadow to her eyes of light.

O, my belov'd! where'er I turn,

Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes;

In every star thy glances burn;

Thy blush on every flow'ret lies.

Nor find I in creation aught

Of bright, or beautiful, or rare,
Sweet to the sense, or pure to thought,
But thou art found reflected there.

The Snow Spirit.

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep
An island of lovelier charms;

It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,
Like Hebe in Hercules' arms.

The blush of your bowers is light to the eye,
And their melody balm to the ear;

But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,
And the Snow Spirit never comes here.

RICHES MOORE

RICHES

The down from his wing is as white as the pearl
That shines through thy lips when they part,
And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl,
As a murmur of thine on the heart.

O, fly to the clime, where he pillows the death,
As he cradles the birth of the year;

Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath,
But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale,
And brightening the bosom of morn,
He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil
O'er the brow of each virginal thorn.
Yet think not the veil he so chillingly casts
In the veil of a vestal severe :

No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts,
Should the Snow Spirit ever come here.

But fly to his region-lay open thy zone,
And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim,
To think that a bosom, as white as his own,
Should not melt in a daybeam like him.
O, lovely the print of those delicate feet
O'er his luminous path will appear-
Fly, my beloved! this island is sweet,
But the Snow Spirit cannot come here.

'Twas noon and every orange bud Hung languid o'er the crystal flood, Faint as the lids of maiden's eyes When love thoughts in her bosom rise. O, for a naiad's sparry bower,

To shade me in that glowing hour!

A little dove, of milky hue, Before me from a plantain flew, And light along the water's brim, I steer'd my gentle bark by him; For fancy told me, Love had sent This gentle bird with kind intent To lead my steps where I should meet— I knew not what, but something sweet.

And-bless the little pilot dove! He had indeed been sent by Love, To guide me to a scene so dear

As fate allows but seldom here:

One of those rare and brilliant hours,

That, like the aloe's" lingering flowers, May blossom to the eye of man.

But once in all his weary span.

Just where the margin's opening shade A vista from the waters made,

My bird repos'd his silver plume
Upon a rich banana's bloom.

O vision bright! O spirit fair!

What spell, what magic rais'd her there?
'Twas Nea! slumbering calm and mild,
And bloomy as the dimpled child,
Whose spirit in elysium keeps

Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps.

The broad banana's green embrace Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace; One little beam alone could win

The leaves to let it wander in,

And, stealing over all her charms,

From lip to cheek, from neck to arms,
New lustre to each beauty lent,-
Itself all trembling as it went!

Dark lay her eyelid's jetty fringe

Upon that cheek whose roseate tinge
Mix'd with its shade, like evening's light
Just touching on the verge of night.
Her eyes, though thus in slumber hid,
Seem'd glowing through the ivory lid,
And, as I thought, a lustre threw
Upon her lip's reflecting dew,-
Such as a night lamp, left to shine
Alone on some secluded shrine,