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And with a voice, whose every note
"Ye children of pleasure, come hasten away,
Yet how shall we roam o'er an Eden like ours, Where a charm at each footstep invites us to stay, And each moment is fraught with the pleasures of hours?
Here all sunny hearts one emotion pervades, It heaves the smooth bosom, and lights the dark eye,
While the whisper'd consent of the bashfullest maid,
Like the airy lute's music is won by a sigh. Then let spirit and senses one rapture employ, And melt in delight ere its ardour be cold, Till our souls are o'erwhelm'd by the fullness of joy, As the canel bends under his burden of gold." Applauding clamors rose around,
And broke the tenor of her song;
That swept the vaulted roof along;
And seek a refuge from the fire,
She had not learnt the fearless look
That beams on all as none were by, Nor could she yet, unblushing, brook The stare of wild impurity;
But turn'd an instant to the sky Which through the casement still was bright, Then seem'd to mete the chamber's height, Now, restless, on the floor she bent,With pictured forms and gold besprent,That hurried glance, half-pleased, half-righted, Which now on Zella's wan cheek lighted. Her soul was pure as new-sprung fountain, And like the calm wave at the base Of frowning rock on flowery mountain, Whose colours tint the watery glass, Her floating eye would instant catch Whate'er expression lit another, And all its own emotions smother, So kindly would she ever watch, And many a smile she oft repressed, In fear to mock the aching breast, By mirth in hour unmeet exprest. And thus it was when, 'midst the gladness The time, her youth, and praise, inspired, She look'd upon a sister's sadness,
For each ecstatic thought retired; And when she struck the lyre again,
"Twas not in that exulting measure, But the sad softness of the strain Flow'd rather like the balm of pain,
Than the rich maddening draught of pleasure;
Yet still it had the fading glow,
Like the last hue of Autumn-leaves,
SUPPOSED TO BE
SUNG BY THE WIFE OF A JAPANESE,
Who had accompanied the Russians to their Country.
The following lines breathe more of imagination and romance than of real passion, which would seem not to be in good taste, as the heart, when it is deeply sunk with grief and affliction, seldom chooses to wander into the wizard retreats of fancy. Here, however, it is justifiable, for when the original intensity of passion is subdued by long disappointment, and softened by some faint glimpses of distant hope, imagination resumes her sway, and soothes affliction by her fairy images.
I look through the mist and I see thee not-
And still thy bark is far away!
The tents are ready, the mats are spread,
Alas! what fate has thy baidare led
Has my bower no longer charms for thee?
Round the stately, spreading, cedar tree,
As I have reposed in thine.
In vain have I found the Sea-parrot's* nest,
Dost thou roam amid the eagle flocks,
Return! the evening mist is chill,
She stood on the beach all the starless night,
And he whom she loved returned no more:
New Monthly Magazine.
They ornament their parkis, mantles, and all their dresses, with the feathers of the Sea-parrot, Storm-fin ch, and Mauridor,
↑ Japan produces red pearls, which are not less esteemed than white.
TO THE LAST LEAF OF AUTUMN.
We would recommend the "Last Leaf in Autumn," and the moral deduced from it, to the attention of youth, for the old need hardly be reminded of either. From the moment man begins to descend the vale of life, his last day is always obtruding itself upon him-always lessening the enjoyment of the moment, always mingling with his lighter reflections,
"Day and night
But giddy youth always feel as if this day were never to arrive, and it is to be regretted, that the picture generally given of it from the pulpit, is clothed in such terrific and fearful drapery, that, instead of dwelling upon it as we ought, we endeavour to chace it entirely from our memory. There is a sober and pensive sweetness, a holy resignation, in the following allusion to it, that strips it of all its terrors, and makes it almost a pleasure to think of it. Such is the witchery of true poetry.-ED.
FRAIL child of Spring, that summer's sun
All one to thee, now, sun or shade,--