And feeding a slow fire on all its powers,
Until the boon for which we gasp in vain,

If hardly won at length, too late made ours
When the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain.
Withheld till evening, on the stately flowers
Which wither'd in the noontide, ne'er again

To lift their heads in glory.-So doth Earth
Breathe on her gifts, and melt away their worth.

The sailor dies in sight of that green shore,
Whose fields, in slumbering beauty, seem'd to lie
On the deep's foam, amidst its hollow roar

Call'd up to sunlight by his fantasy

And, when the shining desert-mists that wore

The lake's bright semblance, have been all pass'd by,

The pilgrim sinks beside the fountain-wave,
Which flashes from its rock, too late to save.

Or if we live, if that, too dearly bought,

And made too precious by long hopes and fears, Remains our own-love, darken'd and o'erwrought By memory of privation, love, which wears

And casts o'er life a troubled hue of thought,
Becomes the shadow of our closing years,
Making it almost misery to possess

Aught, watch'd with such unquiet tenderness.

Such unto him, the bard, the worn and wild,
And sick with hope deferr'd, from whom the sky,
With all its clouds in burning glory pil'd,
Had been shut out by long captivity;
Such, freedom was to Tasso.-As a child
Is to the mother, whose foreboding eye
In its too radiant glance, from day to day,
Reads that which calls the brightest first away.

And he became a wanderer-in whose breast
Wild fear, which, e'en when every sense doth sleep,
Clings to the burning heart, a wakeful guest,

Sat brooding as a spirit, rais'd to keep

Its gloomy vigil of intense unrest

O'er treasures, burthening life, and buried deep

In cavern-tomb, and sought, through shades and stealth,

By some pale mortal, trembling at his wealth.

But woe for those who trample o'er a mind!

A deathless thing.-They know not what they do,
Or what they deal with !-Man perchance may bind
The flower his step hath bruis'd; or light anew
The torch he quenches; or to music wind
Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew
But for the soul!-oh! tremble, and beware
To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there!

For blindness wraps that world—our touch may turn
Some balance, fearfully and darkly hung,
Or put out some bright spark, whose ray should burn
To point the way a thousand rocks among-
Or break some subtle chain, which none discern,
Though binding down the terrible, the strong,
Th' o'ersweeping passions-which to loose on life
Is to set free the elements for strife!

Who then to power and glory shall restore

That which our evil rashness hath undone ?

Who unto mystic harmony once more

Attune those viewless chords?-There is but One!

He that through dust the stream of life can pour,
The Mighty and the Merciful alone!

-Yet oft His paths have midnight for their shade—

He leaves to man the ruin man hath made!

TASSO AND HIS SISTER.

"Devant vous est Sorrente; là démeuroit la sœur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin démander à cette obscure amie, un asile contre l'injustice des princes.-Ses longues douleurs avoient presque égaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que du génie."

Corinne.

SHE sat, where on each wind that sigh'd

The citron's breath went by;

While the deep gold of eventide

Burn'd in the Italian sky.

Her bower was one where daylight's close
Full oft sweet laughter found,

As thence the voice of childhood rose

To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful, at her knee,
Her children stood that hour,