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THE SNOW-SPIRIT.

TU POTES INSOLITAS, CYNTHIA, FERRE

NIVES!

Propert. Lib. i. Eleg.

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 tint of your bowers is balm to the eye, Their melody balm to the ear;

But the fiery planet of day is too nigh

And the Snow-Spirit never comes here!

The down from his wing is as white as the pearl

Thy lips for their cabinet stole,

And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl,

As a murmur of thine on the soul !

Oh 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 irginal thorn! Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts, Is 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 the day-beam like him! Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet O'er his luminous path will appearFly! my beloved! this island is sweet, But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here!

Ενταύθα δε καθωρμισται ημιν. δ, τι μενονο με τη νήσω 8κ οιδα χρυση δ' αν προς χε εμε ονομάζει το.

Philostrat. Icon. 17, Lib. 2.

I STOLE along the flowery bank,

While many a bending sea-grape* drank
The sprinkle of the feathery oar

That wing'd me round this fairy shore!

* The sea-side or mangrove grape, a native of the West-Indies,

VOL. II.

'Twas noon; and every orange bud
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood,
Faint as the lids of maiden eyes
Beneath a lover's burning sighs!
Oh 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 steared my gentle bark by him;
For fancy told me, love had sent
This snowy bird of blandishment,

To lead me, where my soul should meet-
I knew not what, but something sweet!

Blest be 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,
Which, 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,
Oh vision bright! oh spirit fair!

What spell, what magic rais'd her there!

The Agave. I know that this is an erroneous idea, but it is quite true enough for poetry. Plato, I think, allows a poet to be "three removes from truth;" rgwares aro in$ abanderas.

'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,
It glanc'd around a fiery kiss,

All trembling, as it went, with bliss!

Her eyelid's black and silken fringe
Lay on her cheek, of vermil tinge,
Like the first ebon cloud, that closes
Dark on evening's heaven of roses!
Her glances, though in slumber hid,
Seem'd glowing through their ivory lid,
And o'er her lip's reflecting dew
A soft and liquid lustre threw,
Such as, declining dim and faint,
The lamp of some beloved saint
Doth shed upon a flowery wreath,
Which pious hands have hung beneath!
Was ever witchery half so sweet!
Think, think how all my pulses beat,
As o'er the rustling bank I stole-
Oh! you, that know the lover's soul,
It is for you to dream the bliss,
The tremblings of an hour like this!

ON THE LOSS OF A LETTER

INTENDED FOR NEA.

Oh! it was fill'd with words of flame,
With all the wishes wild and dear,
Which love may write, but dares not name,
Which woman reads, but must not hear!

Of many a nightly dream it told,

When all that chills the heart by day,
The worldly doubt, the caution cold,
In fancy's fire dissolve away!

When soul and soul divinely meet,
Free from the senses' guilty shame,
And mingle in a sigh so sweet,

As virtue's self would blush to blame!

How could he lose such tender words?
Words that of themselves should spring
TO NEA's ear, like panting birds,
With heart and soul upon their wing!

Oh! fancy what they dar'd to speak;
Think all a virgin's shame can dread,
Nor pause until thy conscious cheek
Shall burn with thinking all they said!

And I shall feign, shall fancy too.

Some dear reply thou might'st have giv'n : Shall make that lip distil its dew

In promise bland and hopes of heaven!

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