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Motion'd him to be silent; vainly so;
He look'd and look'd again a level-No!
"A serpent!" echoed he. No sooner said,
Than with a frightful scream she vanished;
And Lycius' arms were empty of delight,
As were his limbs of life, from that same night.
On the high couch he lay - his friends came round-
Supported him; no pulse or breath they found,
And in its marriage robe the heavy body wound.*

"Philostratus, in his fourth book, De Vita Apollonii, hath a memorable instance in this kind, which I may not omit, of one Menippus Lycius, a young man twenty-five years of age, that, going betwixt Cenchreas and Corinth, met such a phantasm in the habit of a fair gentlewoman, which, taking him by the hand, carried him home to her house, in the suburbs of Corinth, and told him she was a Phoenician by birth, and if he would tarry with her he should hear her sing and play, and drink such wine as never any drank, and no man should molest him; but she, being fair and lovely, would die with him, that was fair and lovely to behold. The young man, a philosopher, otherwise staid and discreet, able to moderate his passions,

though not this of love, tarried with her awhile to his great content, and at last married her; to whose wedding, amongst other guests, came Apollonius, who, by some probable conjectures, found her out to be a serpent, a lamia, and that all her furniture was, like Tantalus' gold, described by Homer, no substance, but mere illusions. When she saw herself descried she wept, and desired Apollonius to be silent, but he would not be moved, and thereupon she, plate, house, and all that was in it, vanished in an instant. Many thousands took notice of this fact, for it was done in the midst of Greece."-BURTON's Anatomy of Melancholy, Part 3, Sect. 2, Memb. I. Subs. I.

SONGS.

Na drear-nighted December,

IN

Too happy, happy tree,

Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:

The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;

But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,

Never, never petting

About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many

A gentle girl and boy!

But were there ever any
Writhed not at passèd joy?

To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbed sense to steal it,
Was never said in rhyme.

HUSH, HUSH!!

H

I.

USH, hush! Tread softly! hush, hush, my dear!

All the house is asleep, but we know very well

That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear, Tho' you've padded his night-cap-O sweet Isabel!

Tho' your feet are more light than a Faery's feet, Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet,— Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush, my dear! For less than a nothing the jealous can hear.

II.

No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there

On the river, all's still, and the night's sleepy eye Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,

Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming May-fly;

And the moon, whether prudish or complaisant, Has fled to her bower, well knowing I want No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom, But my Isabel's eyes and her lips pulp'd with bloom.

III.

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Lift the latch! ah gently! ah tenderly — sweet! We are dead if that latchet gives one little clink!

* First printed in the "Literary Pocket-book and Com

panion for the Lovers of Nature and Art," for 1818.

Well done!-now those lips, and a flowery seat The old man may sleep, and the planets may wink; The shut rose shall dream of our loves and awake

Full-blown, and such warmth for the morning take,

The stock-dove shall hatch his soft twin-eggs and coo, While I kiss to the melody, aching all through!

1818.

S

FAERY SONGS.

I.

HED no tear! oh shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Weep no more! oh weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
Dry your eyes! oh dry your eyes!
For I was taught in Paradise

To ease my breast of melodies

Shed no tear..

Overhead! look overhead!

'Mong the blossoms white and red-
Look up, look up. I flutter now
On this flush pomegranate bough.
See me! 'tis this silvery bill
Ever cures the good man's ill.
Shed no tear! Oh shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.
Adieu, adieu! I fly, adieu!

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I vanish in the heaven's blue.

Adieu! Adieu!

VOL. III,

33

S

II.

PIRIT here that reignest!
Spirit here that painest!
Spirit here that burnest!
Spirit here that mournest!
Spirit! I bow

My forehead low,
Enshaded with thy pinions!
Spirit! I look,

All passion-struck,

Into thy pale dominions!

Spirit here that laughest!

Spirit here that quaffest!

Spirit here that dancest!
Noble soul that prancest!
Spirit! with thee

I join in the glee,

While nudging the elbow of Momus!
Spirit! I flush

With a Bacchanal blush,

Just fresh from the banquet of Comus !

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III.

H! woe is me! poor Silver-wing!
That I must chant thy lady's dirge,
And death to this fair haunt of spring,
Of melody, and streams of flowery verge,—
Poor Silver-wing! ah! woe is me!
That I must see

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