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The pencil's colors,—all in earth had slept,
Now see them mark with death his victim's strife.

“ Man found thee death—but death and dull decay
Bailling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves ;-
By mighty works he swells his narrow day,
And reigns, for ages, on the world he loves.
“Yet what the price? with stings that never cease
Thou goad'st him on; and when, too keen the smart,
He fain would pause awhile—and sighs for peace,
Food thou wilt have, or tear his victim heart.”
Thus Zophiel still,—“though now the infernal crew
Had gain’d by sin a privilege in the world,
Allay'd their torments in the cool night dew,
And by the dim star-light again their wings unfurl'd.”
And now, regretful of the joys his birth
Had promised ; deserts, mounts and streams he crosty
To find, amid the loveliest spots of earth,
Faint likeness of the heaven he had lost.
And oft, by unsuccessful searching pain'd,
Weary he fainted through the toilsome hours;
And then his mystic nature he sustain'd
On steam of sacrifices-breath of flowers.
Sometimes he gave out oracles, amused
With mortal folly; resting on the shrines;
Or, all in some fair Sibyl's form infused,
Spoke from her quivering lips, or penn'd her mystic lines.
And now he wanders on from glade to glade
To where more precious shrubs diffuse their balms,
And gliding through the thick inwoven shade
Where the

young Hebrew lay in all her charms,

He caught a glimpse. The colors in her facem
Her bare white arms—her lips-her shining hair-
Burst on his view. He would have flown the place;
Fearing some faithful angel rested there,
Who'd see him—reft of glory-lost to bliss-
Wandering and miserably panting—fain
To glean a scanty joy-with thoughts like this-
Came all he'd known and losthe writhed with pain

Ineffable--But what assail'd his ear,
A sigh ?-surprised, another glance he took ;
Then doubting-fearing-gradual coming near-
He ventured to her side and dared to look ;
Whispering, “yes, 't is of earth! So, new-found life
Refreshing, look'd sweet Eve, with purpose fell
When first sin's sovereign gazed on her, and strife
Had with his heart, that grieved with arts of hell,
“Stern as it was, to win her o'er to death -
Most beautiful of all in earth, in heaven,
Oh! could I quaff for aye that fragrant breath,
Couldst thou, or being likening thee, be given

“ To bloom for ever for me thus-still true
To one dear theme, my full soul flowing o'er,
Would find no room for thought of what it knew--
Nor picturing forfeit transport, curse me more.
“But oh! severest pain !—I cannot be
In what I love, biest even the little span-
(With all a spirit's keen capacity
For bliss) permitted the poor insect man.
66 The few I've seen and deem'd of worth to win
Like some sweet floweret mildew'd, in my arms,
Wither'd to hideousness-foul even as sin-
Grew fearful hags; and then with potent charm

“ Of mutter'd word and harmful drug, did learn
To force me to their will. Down the damp grave
Loathing, I went at Endor, and uptorn
Brought back the dead ; when tortured Saul did crave,
" To view his pending fate. Fair-nay, as this
Young slumberer, that dread witch ; when, I array'd
In lovely shape, to meet my guilesul kiss
She yielded first her lip. And thou, sweet maid-
What's it I see ?-a recent tear has stray'd
And left its stain upon her cheek of bliss.--
“She's fallen to sleep in grief-haply been chid,
Or by rude mortal wrong'd. So let it prove
Meet for thy purpose: ’mid these blossoms hid,
I'll gaze; and when she wakes, with all that love

“ And art can lend, come forth. He who would gain
A fond full heart, in love's soft surgery skill'd,
Should seek it when 't is sore; allay its pain-
With balm by pity prest 't is all his own;- so heal'd,

“She may be mine a little year-even fair
And sweet as now-Oh! respite! while possest
I lose the dismal sense of my despair-
But then--I will not think upon the rest.

“And wherefore grieve to cloud her little day
Of fleeting life ?-What doom from power divine
I bear eternal! thoughts of ruth, away!
Wake pretty fly !--and--while thou mayst,--be mine.

6 Though but an hour--so thou suppliest thy looms
With shining silk, and in the cruel snare
Seest the fond bird entrapp'd, but for his plumes
To work thy robes, or twine amidst thy hair."

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY,

Son of the late Hon. William Pinkney, of Baltimore, was born in London, in October, 1802, while his father was minister of the United States at the court of St James. He passed his infancy in England, and on the return of his father to this country, he was placed as a student in Baltimore College, at the age of ten or eleven. Two or three years after this, he obtained the post of midshipman in the United States navy. In this station he continued nine years, visiting in the course of his service, various parts of the globe. On the death of his father he quitted the navy, and devoted himself to the practice of the law. He died in 1828. His volume of poems was published in 1825.

ITALY.

Know'st thou the land which lovers ought to choose ?
Like blessings there descend the sparkling dews;
In gleaming streams the crystal rivers run,
The purple vintage clusters in the sun;
Odors of flowers haunt the balmy breeze,
Rich fruits hang high upon the verdant trees;
And vivid blossoms gem the shady groves
Where bright-plumed birds discourse their careless loves.
Beloved !-speed we from this sullen strand
Untilthy light feet press that green shore's yellow sand.

Look seaward thence, and nought shall meet thine eye
But fairy isles like paintings on the sky;
And, flying fast and free before the gale,
The gaudy vessel with its glancing sail;
And waters glittering in the glare of noon,
Or flecked with broken lines of crimson light
When the far fisher's fire affronts the night.
Lovely as loved! towards that smiling shore
Bear we our household gods, to fix for ever more.

It looks a dimple on the face of earth,
The seal of beauty, and the shrine of mirth ;
Nature is delicate and graceful there,
The place of genius, feminine and fair ;
The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud ;
The air seems never to have borne a cloud,
Save where volcanoes send to heaven their curled
And solemn smokes, like altars of the world.
Thrice beautiful! to that delightful spot
Carry our married hearts, and be all pain forgot.
There Art, too, shows, when Nature's beauty palls,
Her sculptured marbles, and her pictured walls;
And there are forms in which they both conspire
To whisper themes that know not how to tire:
The speaking ruins in that gentle clime
Have but been hallowed by the hand of Time,
And each can mutely prompt some thought of flame
-The meanest stone is not without a name.
Then come, beloved !-hasten o’er the sea
To build our happy hearth in blooming Italy.

A HEALTH.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon ;
To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that like the air, 't is less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in her words; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each

flows As one may see the burthez'd bee forth issue froin the rose.

Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness, of young

flowers ; And lonely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,—the idol of past years! Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts a round must long remain, But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but

hers.

I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex the seerning paragon-
Her health and would on earth there stood some more of

such a frame,
That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.

SONG

WE break the glass, whose sacred wine

To some beloved health we drain,
Lest future pledges, less divine,

Should e'er the hallow'd toy profane;
And thus I broke a heart that poured

Its tide of feeling out for thee,
In draughts, by after-times deplored,

Yet dear to memory.

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