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A vesper song-those tones, so pure, so sweet,
When airs of earth and words of heaven do meet ;
Sad is the legend of that young saint's doom!
When the spring rose was in its May of bloom,
The storm was darkening; at that sweet hour,
When hands beloved had reared her nuptial bower,
The pestilence came o'er the land, and he

With whom her heart was, died that very morn―
Her bridal morn! alas! that there should be
Such evils ever for affection born!
She shrank away from earth, and solitude

Is the sole refuge for the heart's worst pain;
Life had no ties,-she twined her into heaven,
And on the steep rock reared her holy fane.
It has an air of sadness, as just meet

For the so broken heart's last lone retreat!—
A portrait here has still preserved each charm:
I saw it one bright evening when the warm
Last glow of sun-set shed its crimson ray
O'er the lovely image. She was fair
As the most radiant spirits of the air,
Whose life is amid flowers; like the day,
The golden summer day, her glossy hair
Fell o'er a brow of Indian ivory;

Her cheek was pale, and in her large, dark eye
There was a thought of sorrow, and her brow
Upon one small snow hand leant pensively,
As if to hide her tears-the other prést
A silver crucifix upon her breast.

I ne'er saw sadness touching as in thee
And thy lorn look, oh fair ST. VALÉRIE !


Literary Gazette.


THE fickleness and restlessness of mind which father Francis betrays in the following lines, depict, we believe, naturally enough, the revolutions of desire and mutability of feeling peculiar to those who seclude themselves from the world, and devote their lives to religious exercises. If we have any fault to find with the poet, it is for not making the supplicant invoke a few more of the ethereal visitants, for we believe that even those who mix with the world, and who, consequently, are less exposed to the influence of mental impressions than Father Francis, experience more alternations in their antipathies and desires, and, consequently, invoke a greater number of spirits, or, in other words, seek to gratify a greater number of restless cravings, than he did. The solitary recluse, however, is more subject to this fever of the mind than he who mingles and jostles with the world.



Spirit of Joy! I will call upon thee!

With thy bounding step and thy radiant smile;
Thou shalt teach me thy mirth and thy revelry,
For thou can'st the cares of life beguile.
Yet leave me, ah, leave me! all gay as thou art,
I love not thy vain and idle folly;
Thy laughter oppresses the weary heart,
And leaves it to languor and melancholy.

Spirit of Peace! descend from the sky,'

With thy calm, pure look, and thy promise of rest; And let the beam of thy dove-like eye

Still the throbs of this troubled breast: Yet daughter of heaven! thy pinion fold,

My restless soul will not bend to thy sway; For thy smile, tho' sweet, is strangely cold, And it chills my spirit-away! away!

Spirit of Love! obey my voice!

And lead my steps to thy fairy bowers, And let my heart in thy smile rejoice,

And crown my brow with thy brightest flowers. Ah, traitor! thy roses too swiftly fade,

Too soon the captive shall feel thy chain; And many a heart by thy smile betrayed,

Shall sigh for its freedom-but sigh in vain.

Spirit of Hope! from thy bright cloud bend,
power can thy endless charm destroy;
If thou wilt ever my steps attend,

My life shall be one bright round of joy. Angel of Beauty! thy guardian wing

Shall shield me from every earth-born sorrow!

I feel not the anguish to-day may bring,
If still thou wilt promise a blissful morrow!

Netley Abbey.

FATHER FRANCIS. Literary Gazette.-No. 312.


We could never admire that species of love which is purely and unmixedly sentimental, nor yet that in which there is no mixture of sentiment. The one appears of too mental, the other of too sensual a character; and we find ourselves so mysteriously composed, that our pleasures run highest when they are excited by mixed influences, that is, influences partly sensitive and partly intellectual. Where all is mental, the influence is too refined for us: we cannot grasp it, or identify ourselves with its nature. Hence, though we admire the "Paradise Lost," we cannot love it. Its characters are beings with whom we possess no common sympathies. Even Adam and Eve, who might be supposed beings of the same nature with ourselves, have not a particle of nature in them as they are described by Milton. Like all other sinners, they have nothing but religion and morality in their mouths, and we heartily hate all those who make a trade of moralizing. They are too evangelical for us. "There is a time to laugh, and a time to cry," but these gentlemen are always crying over the sins of others. We like to laugh when the time for laughing comes, and therefore we cannot relish those who are always in a contrary mood. On the other hand, where all is sensual, the influence is too gross for us; and we cannot feel satisfied with ourselves in either loving or admiring any thing proceeding from the pen of a writer professedly sensual. Thus do we find ourselves "fearfully and wonderfully made," incapable of relishing any thing that is purely intellectual or purely sensual. We give, therefore, the following lines of Madame D' Houtelot not because they express any feelings congenial with our own, but because they will be pleasing to such readers as are fond of sentimental poetry. They of

fend, at the same time, no rule of good taste or criticism which we can at this moment recollect. We agree indeed with Catullus, that

Difficile est longum subito deponere amorem ; and therefore think it very natural that this good lady should continue to love in her old age; but she does not tell us who she is in love with ;-on the contrary, so far from appearing to be in love with any person, she appears only to be in love with the idea of being in love; or, as Bruyere expresses it, she appears to be one of those who wish to be in love but find they cannot." This is not love, but a chimera of the mind in which real passion has no part whatever, and whoever can relish it, much good may it do to him; but for our own part, we can never sympathize with such unreal, unsubstantial, and visionary affections, or rather phantasies, of the understanding; or, indeed, with affections of any sort that have not their original residence in the heart. We therefore admire the following sentiment, which the reader will find in one of our poetical extracts.

And vain has been each studied art,
And futile every cold endeavour,

The light that comes not from the heart;
A moment shines then fades for ever.


Jeune Jaimai. Le temps de mon bel age,
Ce temps si court, l'amour seul le remplit:
Quand j'atteignis la saison d'être sage,
Toujours j'aimai, la raison me le dit.
Mais l'âge vient, et le plaisir s'envole;
Mais mon bonheur ne s'envole aujourd'hui,
Car j'aime encore, et l'amour me console;
Rien n'aurait pu me consoler de lui,

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