WHEN two congenial spirits meet,-
It matters not how, when, or where,-
A tender feeling, pure as sweet,
Comes o'er the soul, and centres there.
Ye who have felt it-if ye can
Tell me its nature, and its name;
Is it some secret fairy ban,
Some spark of Heaven's ethereal flame?
It is not friendship; for that seeks,
To bud and bloom, the aid of time;
It is not love; for that bespeaks
A mightier spell, a pow'r sublime.
Away! it little recks to know
Its name or nature-what to me
The source whence such pure feelings flow,-
What, stranger fair one, what to thee?
Enough to know that sweet's the flow'r-
Whate'er the plant-that either feels
Its mighty super-human pow'r,
As softly o'er the soul it steals.
Wildly my lover I sought,
Scared by that desolate wail;
Smiling he came; yet I thought
Ne'er had I seen him so pale.
Oh! how it shock'd me to see
Why she wept under the spectre-like tree!
Now he is laid on his bier,
Far from all sorrow and pain, And it would please me to hear
The voice of the Banshee again,
Come with a summon to me,
Come to weep under the spectre-like tree.
adapted to a Welsh melody, by Mrs. C. B. Wilson.
LOVE'S minstrel-lute was once so dear
To ev'ry youthful breast,
Each maiden throng'd its notes to hear,
Each swain its spells confess'd.
Love rambled oft in hours of joy,
Through pleasure's flowery way,
A gay light-hearted minstrel boy,
Chanting his merry lay!
Love's minstrel-lute has lost its tune,
Its sweetest lay is sung;
And passion's fervid breath hath flown,
That sigh'd those chords among.
A blighted flow'r-a broken toy,
Love's lute must now remain ;
No pulse of hope, no thrill of joy,
Shall rouse its fire again.
For reason came amid the throng,
To hear the god one day,
Like a chill blight the flow'rs among,
And check'd his merry lay.
His icy fingers round the boy
Threw wealth's enslaving chain,
And Love's soft lute, that soul of joy,
Ne'er sang of bliss again!
THE FLOWER AND THE KEY,
by Mr. H. Trevanion.
I KNOW not which to love the dearest,
The flower or the little key;
The flower has been worn the nearest,
The key was most beloved by thee.
Ev'n now methinks I mark the shiver,
Caught from the beating of thy heart,
Upon the leaves, when last the giver
'Said from it she would never part.
But it was granted,-and the flower,
More truly than thy lips could tell,
Spoke to me, at that blessed hour,
The thoughts conceal'd so long, so well.
And then the key has a magic power,
Less fetter'd by the world's control;
'Twas granted at the parting hour,
And with it came thy heart-thy soul.
Just as my eye was fondly straying
Where it then hung, and wish'd it mine,
Thou said'st, half sorrowful, half playing,
""Tis my heart's key, and both are thine."
Rememb'rest thou, as thy form bent o'er me,
Around my neck thy gift to tie,
My lips stole, from the cheek before me,
The kiss it could not then deny?
And will not the key renew the feeling,
When it meets my eye, of that time of bliss,
When thy long art, thy love concealing,
Was baffled by that last mad kiss?
It will-it will-the flower is blighted,-
Too like the feeling that was thine,
The first young spark of fancy lighted
To Love, but whilst the hour was mine.
But still the little key before me,
As on it thus I press thy name,
That night's dear mem'ry shining o'er me,
Tells me thou art like it,-the same.
As relic to the pilgrim given
From the true cross, 'tis dear to me;
He loves his, as a voice from Heav'n;
I worship mine :-it speaks of thee.
by an American named Willis; from the Literary Souvenir for 1830.
I'm twenty-two, I'm twenty-two :-they gaily give me joy,
As if I should be glad to hear that I was less a boy;
They do not know how carelessly their words have given pain
To one whose heart would leap to be a happy boy again!
A change has o'er my spirit pass'd, my mirthful hours are few;
The light is all departed now my early feelings knew ;
I used to love the morning gray, the twilight's quiet deep;
But now, like shadows on the sea, upon my thoughts they creep.
And love was as a holy star when this brief year was young,
And my whole worship of the sky on one sweet ray was flung;
But worldly things have come between and shut it from my sight,
And, though that star shines purely yet, I mourn its hidden light!
And fame!-I bent it to my knee, and bound it to my brow,
And it is like a coal upon my living spirit now;
But, when I pray'd for fire from heaven to touch the soul, I bow'd,
And little thought the light'ning flash would come in such a cloud.
Ye give me joy! Is it because another year has fled!
That I am farther from my youth, and nearer to the dead?
Is it that manhood's cares are come-my happy boyhood o'er,-
Because the visions I have loved will visit me no more!
Oh wherefore give me joy, when I can smile no welcome back?
I've found no flower, and seen no light, on manhood's weary track;
My love is deep-ambition deep-and heart and mind will on;
But love is fainting by the way, and fame consumes ere won!
VERSES, INSCRIBED IN AN ALBUM,
WHY write my name 'midst songs and flowers,
To meet the eye of lady gay?
I have no voice for lady's bowers,
For page like this no fitting lay.
Yet, though my heart no more must bound
At witching call of sprightly joys,
Mine is the brow that never frown'd
On laughing lips, or sparkling eyes.
No-though behind me now is closed
The youthful paradise of Love,
Yet I can bless, with soul composed,
The ling'iers in that happy grove.
Take then, fair girls, my blessing take,
Where'er amid its charms you roam;
Or where, by western hill or lake,
You brighten a serener home;
And, while the youthful lover's name
Here with the sister beauty's blends,
Laugh not to scorn the humbler aim,
That to their list would add a friend's!
by Mr. Banim, commemorating a real Incident in Ireland.
AN old man then knelt at the altar,
His enemy's hand to take;
And at first his faint voice did falter,
And his feeble hands did shake:
For his only brave boy-his glory
Had been stretch'd at the old man's feet,
A corpse all so pale and gory,
By the hand that he now must greet.
The old man soon ceas'd speaking;
And rage, that had not gone by,
From under his brows came breaking
Up into his enemy's eye;
And now his hands were not shaking,
But clench'd o'er his heart were cross'd,
And he look'd a fierce look to be taking
Revenge for the boy he had lost.
But the old man now look'd around him,
And thought of the place he was in-
And thought of the vow that bound him--
And thought that revenge was sin;
And then-crying tears like a woman—
"Your hand!" he said-"aye, that hand!——
And I do forgive you, foeman,
For the sake of our bleeding land!"
[THE tyrant Diocletian, after his abdication of the imperial dignity, secluded himself in a tower which he had built upon a rocky hill near Salona in Dalmatia. The spot is thus described by Mr. Doubleday.]
A nation toil'd at the enormous pile.
Rock after rock was heap'd, with weariless
And mighty enginery, till, as the tower
Rose on the giant circle of its base,
And taper'd up into the vast of air,
The huge and quarried masses shew'd like nuts
To him that eyed them from the depth below.
There doth it frown (while half a province lies
In its wide shadow) as some sea-worn crag,
For ages sever'd from its kindred shore,
That rises, tow'ring o'er its subject rocks
Heap'd wildly round its feet, confused and dim,
Unknown by human footstep, human eye,
Or voice; the lone haunt of the sullen sea;
Black with salt herbage, silent, motionless;
Like shapeless ruins of some city, old,
Spoil'd by the wild and melancholy main.
There rustles, ever, that long awful pulse,
As ocean beats with life-the solemn swell
That's never still; and, as the waters rise,
The surges echo 'mid the caves below,
While, on its misty head, the coarse crisp grass
Or small-leaf'd sea-flower, heedless of the din,
Springs tranquilly, 'mid the keen brinish air.
So, o'er Salona's marble splendor, towers
The airy Diocletian's last retreat,
Uprising, vast, 'mid the dim vault of night,
Dark neighbour of the stars. The journeying clouds
Strike on its massive sides, and on its top
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