Crimsoned my cheek; I felt warm tears Dimming my sight, yet was it sweet, My wild heart's most bewildering beat,

Consciousness, without hopes or fears, Of a new power within me waking, Like light before the morn's full breaking.

For love to bow before the name

Of this world's treasure: shame! oh, shame!
Love, be thy wings as light as those
That waft the zephyr from the rose,-
This may be pardoned-something rare
In loveliness has been thy snare!
But how, fair Love, canst thou become
A thing of mines-a sordid gnome ?

And she whom Julian left-she stood
A cold white statue; as the blood
Had, when in vain her last wild prayer,

Upon her temple, each dark vein Swelled in its agony of pain.

THE CHARMED CUP.

And fondly round his neck she clung;
Her long black tresses round him flung,
Love-chains, which would not let him part;
And he could feel her beating heart,
The pulses of her small white hand,
The tears she could no more command,
The lip which trembled, though near his,
The sigh that mingled with her kiss ;—
Yet parted he from that embrace.
He cast one glance upon her face:
His very soul felt sick to see

Its look of utter misery;

:

Yet turned he not one moment's grief,
One pang, like lightning, fierce and brief,
One thought, half pity, half remorse,
Pass'd o'er him. On he urged his horse;
Hill, ford, and valley spurred he by,
And when his castle gate was nigh,
White foam was on his 'broider'd rein,
And each spur had a blood-red stain.
But soon be entered that fair ball:
His laugh was loudest there of all ;
And the cup that wont one name to bless,
Was drained for its forgetfulness.

The ring, once next his heart, was broken ;
The gold chain kept another token.
Where is the curl he used to wear-
The raven tress of silken hair?
The winds have scattered it. A braid,
Of the first Spring-day's golden shade
Waves with the dark plume on his crest.
Fresh colours are upon his breast;
The slight blue scarf, of simplest fold,
Is changed for one of woven gold.
And he is by a maiden's side,

Whose gems of price, and robes of pride,
Would suit the daughter of a king;
And diamonds are glistening
Upon her arm. There's not one curl
Unfastened by a loop of pearl.
And he is whispering in her ear
Soft words that ladies love to hear.
Alas!-the tale is quickly told-
His love hath felt the curse of gold!
And he is bartering his heart
For that in which he hath no part.
There's many an ill that clings to love;
But this is one all else above ;—

Chill, heavy damps were on her brow;
Her arms were stretched at length, though now -
Their clasp was on the empty air;
A funeral pall-her long black hair
Fell over her; herself the tomb

Of her own youth, and breath, and bloom.
Alas! that man should ever win

So sweet a shrine to shame and sin
As woman's heart and deeper woe
For her fond weakness not to know
That yielding all but breaks the chain
That never reunites again !

It was a dark and tempest night-
No pleasant moon, no blest starlight;
But meteors glancing o'er the way,
Only to dazzle and betray.

And who is she, that 'mid the storm,
Wraps her slight mantle round her form?
Her hair is wet with rain and sleet,
And blood is on her small snow feet.
She has been forced a way to make
Through prickly weed and thorned brake,
Up rousing from its coil the snake;
And stirring from their damp abode
The slimy worm and loathsome toad:
And shuddered as she heard the gale
Shriek like an evil spirit's wail;
When followed like a curse the crash
Of the pines in the lightning flash :---
A place of evil and of fear-

O what can Julian's love do here?
On, on the pale girl went. At last
The gloomy forest depths are past,
And she has reached the wizard's den,
Accursed by God and shunned by men.
And never had a ban been laid
Upon a more unwholesome shade.
There grew dank alders, and the yew
Its thick sepulchral shadow threw ;
And brooded there each bird most foul,
The gloomy bat and sullen owl.

But Ida entered in the cell,
Where dwelt the wizard of the dell.
Her heart lay dead, her life-blood froze
To look upon the shape which rose
To bar her entrance. On that face
Was scarcely left a single trace
Of human likeness: the parched skin
Showed each discoloured bone within;
And but for the most evil stare
Of the wild eyes' unearthly glare,

It was a corpse, you would have said,
From which life's freshness long had fled.

Yet Ida knelt her down and prayed
To that dark sorcerer for his aid.

He heard her prayer with withering look ;
Then from unholy herbs he took
A drug, and said it would recover
The lost heart of her faithless lover,
She trembled as she turned to see
His demon sneer's malignity;

And every step was winged with dread,
To hear the curse howled as she fled.
It is the purple twilight hour,
And Julian is in Ida's bower.

He has brought gold, as gold could bless
His work of utter desolateness!

He has brought gems, as if Despair
Had any pride in being fair!

But Ida only wept, and wreathed

Her white arms round his neck; then breathed
Those passionate complaints that wring

A woman's heart, yet never bring
Redress. She call'd upon each tree
To witness her lone constancy!
She call'd upon the silent boughs,
The temple of her Julian's vows
Of happiness too dearly bought!
Then wept again. At length she thought
Upon the forest sorcerer's gift-

The last, lone hope that love had left!
She took the cup, and kiss'd the brim;
Mixed the dark spell, and gave it him
To pledge his once dear Ida's name!
He drank it. Instantly the flame
Ran through his veins one fiery throb
Of bitter pain-one gasping sob
Of agony-the cold death sweat
Is on his face-his teeth are set-
His bursting eyes are glazed and still:
The drug has done its work of ill.
Alas! for her who watch'd each breath,
The cup her love had mixed bore-death!

The progress of the songster's own love is potently touched :

Spirit of Love! soon thy rose-plumes wear
The weight and the sully of canker and care :
Falsehood is round thee; Hope leads thee on,
Till every hue from thy pinion is gone.

The effects of this enchanting passion are pourtrayed with equal delicacy, vigour, and truth:

I owned not to myself I loved,-
No word of love Lorenzo breathed;
But I lived in a magic ring,

Of every pleasant flower wreathed.
A brighter blue was on the sky,
A sweeter breath in music's sigh;
The orange shrubs all seemed to bear
Fruit more rich, and buds more fair.
There was a glory on the noon,
A beauty in the crescent moon,
A lulling stillness in the night,
A feeling in the pale starlight.

There was a charmed note on the wind,
A spell in Poetry's deep store---

Heart-uttered words, passionate thoughts,

Which I had never marked before. 'Twas as my heart's full happiness Poured over all its own excess.

And here a playful change is introduced in the character of a "Hindoo Girl's Song;" followed by an eastern legend. We quote both;

Playful and wild as the fire-flies' light,

This moment hidden, the next moment bright,
Like the foam on the dark-green sea,

Is the spell that is laid on my lover by me.
Were your sigh as sweet as the sumbal's sigh,
When the wind of the evening is nigh;
Were your smile like that glorious light,
Seen when the stars gem the deep midnight;
Were that sigh and that smile for ever the same-
They were shadows, not fuel, to love's dull'd flame.
Love once formed an amulet,

With pearls, and a rainbow, and rose-leaves set.
The pearls were pure as pearls could be,

And white as maiden purity;

The rose had the beauty and breath of soul,
And the rainbow-changes crowned the whole.
Frown on your lover one little while,
Dearer will be the light of your smile;

Let your blush, laugh, and sigh ever mingle together,
Like the bloom, sun, and clouds of the sweet spring

weather.

Love never must sleep in security,

Or most calm and cold will his waking be.

And as that light strain died away,

Again I swept the breathing strings: But now the notes I waked were sad, As those the pining wood-dove sings.

THE INDIAN BRIDE.

SHE has lighted her lamp, and crowned it with flowers,

The sweetest that breathed of the summer hours :.
Red and white roses linked in a band,
Like a maiden's blush or a maiden's hand;
Jasmines,-some like silver spray,
Some like gold in the morning ray;
Fragrant stars,-and favourites they,
Braid their dark tresses: and over all weaves
When Indian girls on a festival-day,
The rosy bower of lotus leaves—

Canopy suiting the lamp-lighted bark,
Love's own flowers and Love's own ark.

She watch'd the sky, the sunset grew dim;
She raised to Camdeo her evening bymn.
The scent of the night-flowers came on the air;
And then, like a bird escap'd from the snare,
She flew to the river-(no moon was bright,
But the stars and the fire-flies gave her their light ;)
She stood beneath the mangoes' shade,
Half delighted and half afraid;

She trimmed the lamp, and breathed on each bloom,
(Oh, that breath was sweeter than all their perfume!)
Threw spices and oil on the spire of flame,
Called thrice on her absent lover's name;
And every pulse throbbed as she gave
Her little boat to the Ganges' wave.

There are a thousand fanciful things
Linked round the young heart's imaginings.
In its first love-drcam, a leaf or a flower
Is gifted then with a spell and a power:
A shade is an omen, a dream is a sign,
From which the maiden can well divine
Passion's whole history. Those only can tell
Who have loved as young hearts can love so well,
How the pulses will beat, and the cheek will be dyed,
When they have some love augury tried.
Ob, it is not for those whose feelings are cold,
Withered by care, or blunted by gold;
Whose brows have darkened with many years,
To feel again youth's hopes and fears→→
What they now might blush to confess,
Yet what made their spring day's happiness!
Zaide watched her flower-built vessel glide,
Mirror'd beneath on the deep-blue tide;
Lovely and lonely, scented and bright,
Like Hope's own bark, all bloom and light.
There's not one breath of wind on the air,
The Heavens are cloudless, the waters are fair,
No dew is falling, yet woe to that shade!
The maiden is weeping-her lamp has decayed.
Hark to the ring of the cymetar!

It tells that the soldier returns from afar.
Down from the mountains the warriors come:
Hark to the thunder roll of the drum !-
To the startling voice of the trumpet's call !-
To the cymbal's clash!—to the atabal!
The banners of crimson float in the sun,
The warfare is ended, the battle is won.

The mother hath taken the child from her breast,
And raised it to look on its father's crest.
The pathway is lined, as the bands pass along,
With maidens, who meet them with flowers and song.
And Zaide hath forgotten in Azim's arms
All her so false lamp's falser alarms.

This looks not a bridal,-the singers are mute,
Still is the mandore, and breathless the lute;
Yet there the bride sits. Her dark hair is bound,
And the robe of her marriage floats white on the
ground.

Oh! where is the lover, the bridegroom?-oh! where?

Look under your black pall-the bridegroom is there! Yet the guests are all bidden, the feast is the same, And the bride plights her troth amid smoke and 'mid flame!

They have raised the death-pyre of sweet scented wood,

And sprinkled it o'er with the sacred flood

Of the Ganges. The priests are assembled:-their

Song

Sinks deep on the ear as they bear her along,
That bride of the dead. Ay, is not this love?
That one pure wild feeling all others above:
Vowed to the living, and kept to the tomb !—
The same in its blight as it was in its bloom.
With no tear in her eye, and no change in her smile、
Young Zaide had come nigh to the funeral pile.
The bells of the dancing-girls ceased from their
sound;

Silent they stood by that holiest mound.

From a crowd like the sea-waves there came not a breath,

When the maiden stood by the place of death!
One moment was given-the last she might spare!
To the mother, who stood in her weeping there.
She took the jewels that shone on her hand:
She took from her dark hair its flowery band,

And scatter'd them round. At once they raise
The hymn of rejoicing and love in her praise.
A prayer is muttered, a blessing said,—
Her torch is raised!-she is by the dead.
She has fired the pile! At once there came
A mingled rush of smoke and of flame:
The wind swept it off. They saw the bride,-
Laid by her Azim, side by side.

The breeze had spread the long curls of her hair:
Like a banner of fire they played on the air.
The smoke and the flame gather'd round as before,
Then cleared ;-but the bride was seen no more!

But the heroine's own melancholy fate approaches; the victim of an unrequited affection

Lorenzo like a dream had flown!
We did not meet again:-he seemed
To shun each spot where I might be ;
And, it was said, another claimed

The heart-more than the world to me!

And the burning vehemency of what follows, contrasted with the sombre shading into which the feeling sinks, till it rises again into warmth and ardour, appears to us to be the very essence of poetry.

I loved him as young Genius loves,

When its own wild and radiant heaven
Of starry thought burns with the light,
The love, the life, by passion given.

I loved him, too, as woman loves-
Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn:
Life had no evil destiny

That, with him I could not have borne!
I had been nurst in palaces;

Yet earth had not a spot so drear,
That I should not have thought a home
In Paradise, had he been near!
How sweet it would have been to dwell,
Apart from all, in some green dell

Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers;
And nestling birds to sing the hours!
Our home, beneath some chesnut's shade,
But of the woven branches made:
Our vesper hymn, the low lone wail
The rose hears from the nightingale;
And waked at morning by the call
Of music from a waterfall.
But not alone in dreams like this,
Breathed in the very hope of bliss,
I loved: my love had been the same
In hushed despair, in open shame.
I would have rather been a slave,
In tears, in bondage, by his side,
Than shared in all, if wanting him,

This world had power to give beside !
My heart was withered,-and my heart
Had ever been the world to me;
And love had been the first fond dream,
Whose life was in reality.

I bad sprung from my solitude

Like a young bird upon the wing
To meet the arrow; so I met

My poisoned shaft of suffering.
And as that bird, with drooping crest
And broken wing, will seek his nest,
But seek in vain; so vain I sought
My pleasant home of song and thought,
There was one spell upon my brain,
Upon my pencil, on my strain ;
But one face to my colours came ;
My chords replied but to one name—
Lorenzo! all seem'd vow'd to thee,
To passion, and to misery!

Another delightful interlude (though miscalled a Song) is here brought in, but we can only quote the first eloquent stanza:

Farewell!-we shall not meet again!
As we are parting now,

I must my beating heart restrain---
Must veil my burning brow!
Oh, I must coldly learn to hide

One thought, all else above-
Must call upon my woman's pride
To hide my woman's love!
Check dreams I never may avow;
Be free, be careless, cold as thou!

The song is succeeded by a charming Episode of Leades and Cydippe, whose romantic tale is told with all the author's artless effect. Their unhappy catastrophe leads with congenial transition to that of the Improvisatrice; she witnesses the marriage of Lorenzo to another; and his history, which compelled him to that sacrifice, is related. He confesses his love for her, and after some pathetic expressions of sorrow (a few words of which we throw into a note*,) the poem breaks off, and thus concludes :

There is a lone and stately hall,--
Its master dwells apart from all.
A wanderer through Italia's land,
One night a refuge there I found.
The lightning's flash rolled o'er the sky,
The torrent rain was sweeping round ;--
These won me entrance. He was young,
The castle's lord, but pale like age;
Ilis brow, as sculpture beautiful,

* That sun has kissed the morning dews,--I shall not see its twilight close! That rose is fading in the noon,

And I shall not outlive that rose! --Thou wilt remember me,--my name Is linked with beauty and with fame. The summer airs, the summer sky, The soothing spell of Music's sigli,--Stars in their poetry of night, The silver silence of moonlight,--The dim blush of the twilight hours, The fragrance of the bee-kissed flowers ;--But, more than all, sweet songs will be Thrice sacred unto Love and me. Lorenzo! be this kiss a spell!

My first ---my last! Farewell!--- Farewell!

Was wan as Grief's corroded page.
He had no words, he had no smiles,

No hopes his sole employ to brood
Silently over his sick heart

In sorrow and in solitude.

I saw the hall where, day by day,
He mused his weary life away;—
It scarcely seem'd a place for woe,
But rather like a genie's home.
Around were graceful statues ranged,

And pictures shone around the dome,
But there was one-a loveliest one :-

One picture brightest of all there!
Oh! never did the painter's dream
Shape thing so gloriously fair!
It was a face!--the summer day

Is not more radiant in its light!
Dark flashing eyes, like the deep stars
Lighting the azure brow of night;
A blush like sunrise o'er the rose;

A cloud of raven hair, whose shade
Was sweet as evening's, and whose curls
Clustered beneath a laurel braid.
She leant upon a harp:---one hand
Wandered, like snow, amid the chords;
The lips were opening with such life,

You almost heard the silvery words.
She looked a form of light and life,---
All soul, all passion, and all fire;
A priestess of Apollo's, when

The morning beam falls on her lyre;
A Sappho, or ere love had turned
The heart to stone where once it burned.
But by the picture's side was placed
A funeral urn, on which was traced
The heart's recorded wretchedness;
And on a tablet hung above,
Was 'graved one tribute of sad words---
'Lorenzo to his Minstrel Love.'

'It has lately been repeated by several of our critical guides, that our epoch of poetry has closed. They have taken up a fanciful theory; and because the minstrel harp of the Border has been hushed, and the light of Childe Harold's flame extinguished, they rashly venture to decree, that a number of silent years must elapse before the birth of another era of song. We will not pay them so ill a compliment as to believe that they will maintain this opinion after they have read the Improvisatrice. We doubt not the ability to discover some of the faults of youthful composition in her strains; but we would most sincerely pity the person who could notice them amid the transcendant beauties of thought, expression, imagery, and fervent genius, with the blaze of which they are surrounded and illumi