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By the heroes' armed shades,
He sung, and hell consented
A conquest how hard and how glorious!
But soon, too soon, the lover turns his
For ever, ever, ever lost!
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope's snows:
See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert he flies :
Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung;
Eurydice the floods,
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And make despair and madness please:
And antedate the bliss above.
And to her Maker's praise confined the sound.
THE DYING GIRL.
By Miss JEWSBury.
My mother! look not on me now
Nay, weep not!—on my brow is set
Its furrows thou may'st wildly wet,
And could'st thou see my weary heart,
Oh, mother, mother! thou wouldst start,
""T were best to die!
I know 'tis summer on the earth-
Of waters in their chiming mirth—
The roses through my lattice look,
The peasant takes his harvest-hook-
There's nothing in this time of flowers,
The whispering leaves, the sunny hours,
Then, mother! when my heart's above,
A SLEEPING CHAMBER.
One of the many passages of sweet poetry interspersed in BYRON'S Don Juan.
THERE was deep silence in the chamber: dim
And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste
Many and beautiful lay those around,
Like flowers of different hue, and clime, and root,
In some exotic garden sometimes found,
With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot.
One with her auburn tresses lightly bound,
And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath,
One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm,
And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud
Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night
This is no bull, although it sounds so; for
'T was night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. A third 's all pallid aspect offer'd more
The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray'd
(As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges
The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark fringes.
A fourth, as marble statue-like and still,
Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep;
So pick and choose-perhaps you'll be content
A passage from one of the poems of S. T. COLERIDGE.
HERE will I seat myself, beside this old,
Clothes as with net-work: here will I couch my limbs,
The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow,
Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright, Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast, That swells its little breast, so full of song, Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. And thou too, desert Stream! no pool of thine, Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve, Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe, The face, the form divine, the downcast look Contemplative! Behold! her open palm Presses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree, That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile Had from her countenance turn'd, or look'd by stealth (For fear is true love's cruel nurse), he now With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye, Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain, E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed, But not unheeded gazed: for see, ah! see, The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow, Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells: And suddenly, as one that toys with time, Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm Is broken-all that phantom-world so fair Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile, Poor youth, who scarcely darest lift up thine eyes! The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon The visions will return! And lo! he stays: And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms Come trembling back, unite, and now once more The pool becomes a mirror; and behold Each wildflower on the marge inverted there, And there the half-uprooted tree-but where,