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 heard, there was in ancient days
A Lyre of most melodious spell;
"Twas heav'n 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-whispering 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!

And, oft as passion's milder fire

Could love's communing calm allow, The youth would make the grateful Lyre A pillow for his angel's brow!

And while the melting vows she breath'd
On all its echoes wanton'd round,
Her hair, amid the strings enwreath'd,
Through golden mazes charm'd the sound!

Alas! their hearts but little thought,
While thus entranc'd they listening lay,
That every sound the Lyre was taught
Should linger long, and long betray!

Yet, who can blame the guiltless Lyre?
Long had its spirit learn'd to dwell
On every accent of desire,

That from their lips unconscious fell;

The falter'd name, the murmuring play,
The bashful sigh, the chiding dear,
The lisping things that love will say,
And all but love will blush to hear!

Till, so commingled with its soul
Was every blissful breathing grown,
That other sighs, unanswer'd stole,

Nor chang'd the sweet, the treasur’d tone.

Unhappy nymph! thy hallow'd name
To every whispering lip was sigh d;
Thy secret vow, thy pleas of shame
On every ear in murmurs died!

The fatal Lyre, by envy's hand

Hung high amid the breezy groves,

To every passing gale that fann'd

Betray'd the mystery of your loves!