SUBJECT OF THE PLATE IN NO. XIV.*
UPON his couch the veiled Mokanna lay,
While lamps around-not such as lend their ray,
Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly pray,
In holy Koom, or Mecca's dim arcades,--

But, brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids
Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow.
Beside him stead of beads and books of prayer,
Which the world fondly thought he mused on there,
Stood Vases, filled with Kishmee's golden wine,
And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine;
Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draught
Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff'd,
Like Zemzem's spring of holiness had power
To freshen the soul's virtues into flower!
And still he drank and ponder'd-nor could see
Th' approaching maid, so deep his reverie;

At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke
From Eblis at the fall of man, he spoke :-

"Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement given,

Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heaven."

**

"Oh my lost soul!" exclaimed the shuddering maid, Whose ears had drank like poison all he said;Mokanna started,-not abash'd, afraid

*

*

*

**

*

"Ha, my fair Priestess!" thus with ready wile Th' impostor turn'd to greet her-" thou whose smile Hath inspiration in its rosy beam

Beyond the Enthusiast's hope or Prophet's dream—”

"Thou seest this cup-no jnice of earth is here,
But the pure waters of the upper sphere,
Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow,
Catching the gem's bright colour, as they go.
Nightly my Genii come and fill these urns-
Nay, drink-in every drop life's essence burns."

The Veiled Prophet.

By a mistake of the Printer, a wrong quotation was given in the last number.

TO MY ESTEEMED FRIEND, MRS. ***
With a trifling present of some books.

"The little rose that laughs upon its stem,
One of the sweets with which the gardens teem,
In value soars above an eastern gem,

If tendered as the token of esteem."

CUNNINGHAM.

THOUGH FRIENDSHIP hath long been despised or unknown,

Her temple in ruins, her altars o'erthrown;

Though hearts close against her, rejecting her sway,
And those that receive her, receive to betray;
Yet, should she find one with sincerity blest,
The wanderer there will be ever carest;
And the sweet emanation her presence bestows,
Till life's latest throb, in each artery glows:
Then accept my poor gift, nor its meanness disdain,
And let friendship pardon from friendship obtain:
But if you are bent on severe litigation,
My motto, I trust, will procure mitigation:
At least let me respite from banishment sue,
As I've suffered so oft transportation from you:
This, by strict rule of logic, I straight will make clear,
Though at first such assertions may doubtful appear---
No wight ever yet to YOUR presence resorted,
Howe'er short the time, without being---transported!
Should the pages I send you one moment beguile,
Which had else been in tedious apathy spent ;
Or call forth, despite of dejection, a smile,

It would heighten their value a thousand per cent―
And soon repetition would raise them too high,
In my poor esteem, for a monarch to buy!

For hours there are, when a spiritless dearth
Oppresses the loveliest things upon earth;
And WOMAN, the fairest and sweetest of these,
(Like the flower, whose bloom on her cheek is dis-
played;

That droops in its beauty, and sighs to the breeze)
Is oft doomed to languish in Misery's shade.

Oh, many an eye, in whose soft fringed recess

You might read---what a language would fail to ex

press,

Hath been dimmed by a tear; not for others alone,
But the herald of sorrow too nearly its own :---
And many a bosom, as pure as the snow,

Whose mountain-bed never pollution can know,
Sighs to yield that sweet mansion, which Hope hath
left bare,

To the inroad of Grief, and the chill of Despair,

Which should only have felt that wild throb of delight,

(Known to all that have loved, when the loved-one is near)

When she hears her name breathed on the silence of night,

By lips she would listen for ages to hear :--

Gently murmuring o'er flowers the night-breeze she meets,

That bestows as it passes a million of sweets;

But the sound of that voice, and the glance of that

eye,

Bear a charm before which all their sweetness must die--

And she sees not the moon, though its silvery bean Hath arrayed with such splendour the dark-rolling stream;

Though each dew-drop that hangs on the foliage around,

Glitters bright as the diamond at Golconda found;
Nor hears she the nightingale's melody now,

Though sweetly as ever it swells from the bough;
Her lover is there---he for whom her young heart
Hath imbibed an affection which ne'er can depart,
And her ear is all reckless, her bright eye is dim
To the charms of a world, in the presence of him.
Alas, that sweet Woman should ever feel woe,
Save that which arises from joy's overflow!

That her soft cheek should ever be stained with a tear,

Unless fulness of rapture should bid it appear!
Or Pity, who loves in her bosom to dwell,

And inspires that trait which becomes her so well!

Oh, may no sterner grief e'er disturb YOUR repose,
Than such as may give to enjoyment a zest !
As the breeze scatters dew from the cup of a rose,
May the sweet breath of Joy dry the tear as it flows,
And the care which it sprung from expel from your
breast!
A. Z.

Dec. 26th, 1818.

CHILDHOOD,

FROM" THE PILGRIM'S FATE," A POEM,
By Ingram Cobbin, M. A.

O, HOW enchanting was life's day-break hour,
Soft slumbers brooded o'er my cradled head,
Seeming to mother's eyes like opening flower,
A rose-bud sleeping on a mossy bed.

And when that peeping rose-bud 'gan to spread,
It bloomed more lovely to those partial eyes,
While shining suns their genial influence shed,
Pouring effulgent beams from cloudless skies,
Dear to my heart those hours till recollection dies.
And loftily I roll'd my infant eye,

When nurse bedeck'd me in my scarlet shoes,
And silver clasps, and dress of brilliant dye,
And broad and shining sash of many hues.
And still my pensive mind doth love to muse
On nurseling's duties, when I used to ride
The rocking horse, and with delight reviews
The little cavalier in knight-like pride,

Stretching his folded limbs on wooden beast astride.
And next my thoughts recal the thoughtless boy,
When flattering tongues with gravity admired
The mother's picture and the father's joy;
"Twas all their ears attentive then desired.
Nor more ambition had my bosom fired,
Save when the early efforts of my hand,
In landscape rude, or blotted copy tired

The less admiring eye; thrust forth by fond command,
And I a wonder was, shewn in a wondrous land.

Proud of my lore, to school I daily sped,

With weighty satchel dangling at my heel,

And task more weighty rolling through my head— (The pleasing, painful burdens now I feel.)

The few short hours away would lingering steal,
Then ended all the toilings of the day,

When home with joy my careless steps would reel,
And labour yielded to delightful play;

I cared not who was sad, for I was ever gay.
Now round the humming-top the whip was twirl'd,
Or favorite taw was darted 'thwart the ring,
Or jingling hoop with rapid strokes was whirl'd,
Or kite was mounted by the lengthen'd string,
Or ball ascended as on airy wing,

From trap or wicket, eager in its flight,
Or rope extended for the ambitious spring;-
The darling sports detailed give new delight,
And fancy plays them o'er again to bless my sight.
And well I recollect the objects now,
The haunted mansion which I used to fly,
And castle with its awful hanging brow,
And turrets nodding gravely at the sky,
Whose storm beat heads old Time had dared defy:
How oft I flitted by them, stifling breath,

Dreading where'er their dark chasms open'd by;
For there my coward mind but saw or death,
Or giant forms of ghosts, as still the old wife saith.
For I had yet to know that man set free
From this mortality's cold clogging chain,
The soul embodied, never more can see,
Nor he to earth's base soil return again;
To treat the childish phantom with disdain,
Nor fear but forms which cast in earthly mould,
Do still the wickedness of flesh retain;

The living ghosts that burn (not the death-cold)
That stalk at noon-day forth, in mischief skill'd and
bold.

O, I could linger on those scenes gone by!

As traveller when he attains the mountains' brow,
Hangs o'er the travelled road with lagging eye,
And with a footstep pausing oft and slow,
Seems to regret his progress homeward,-so
Still would my doating heart old scenes renew,
Which once pass'd o'er, I ne'er again can know,
And scarcely memory doth believe them true;
Flown are they far, and fast as e'er Time's pinions flew.