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 ecstatic! 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 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 breathed 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 kind repose!

And oh when lovers talk'd alone,

If 'mid their bliss the Lyre was near, It made their murmurs all its own,

And echoed notes that Heaven might hear!

There was a nymph, who long had loved,
But dared not tell the world how well;
The shades, where she at evening roved,
Alone could know, alone could tell.

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

It chanced that in the fairy bower

Where they had found their sweetest shed, This Lyre, of strange and magic power, Hung gently whispering o'er their head.

And while, with eyes of mingling fire,
They listen'd to each other's vow,
The youth full oft would make the Lyre
A pillow for his angel's brow!

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

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

So mingled with its tuneful soul

Were all their tender murmurs grown, That other sighs unanswer'd stole,

Nor changed the sweet, the treasured tone.

Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung
To every passing lip that sigh'd;
The secrets of thy gentle tongue
On every ear in murmurs died!

The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand

Hung high amid the breezy groves, To every wanton gale that fann'd

Betray'd the mystery of your loves!

Yet, oh!-not many a suffering hour,
Thy cup of shame on earth was given ;
Benignly came some pitying Power,

And took the Lyre and thee to Heaven!

There, as thy lover dries the tear

Yet warm from life's malignant wrongs, Within his arms, thou lovest to hear

The luckless Lyre's remember'd songs!

Still do your happy souls attune

The notes it learn'd, on earth, to move; Still breathing o'er the chords, commune In sympathies of angel love!

TO THE FLYING-FISH.*

WHEN I have seen thy snowy wing
O'er the blue wave at evening spring,

* It is the opinion of St. Austin, upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful circumstance which can tend to prove a kindred similitude between them; ovyγενειαν τοις πετομένοις προς τα νηκτα. With this thought in our minds when we first see the Flying-Fish, we could almost fancy that we are present at the moment of creation, and witness the birth of the first bird from the waves.