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“My Angelo ! and why of them to be ?
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee-
And greener fields than in yon world above,
And woman's loveliness-and passionate love."

But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
• Failed, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurled-

Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
And rolled, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
And fell—not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion through
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto !
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours-
Dread star ! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.”

“We came—and to thy Earth—but not to us Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:

We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
Nor ask a reason, save the angel-nod
She grants to us, as granted by her God-
But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled
Never his fairy wing o'er fairer world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea-
But when its glory swelled upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
We paused before the heritage of men,
And thy star trembled-as doth Beauty's then !"

Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
They fell : for Heaven to them no hope imparts
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.

TO THE RIVER

FAIR river ! in thy bright, clear flow

crystal, wandering water, Thou art an emblem of the glow

Of beauty--the unhidden heart

The playful magazines of art
In old Alberto's daughter;

But when within thy wave she looks—

Which glistens then, and trembles-
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks

Her worshipper resembles ;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,

Her image deeply lies-
His heart which trembles at the beam

Of her soul-searching eyes.

TAMERLAN E.

KIND solace in a dying hour !

Such, father, is not (now) my themeI will not madly deem that power Of Earth

may

shrive me of the sin Unearthly pride hath revell'd inI have no time to dote or dream : You call it hope that fire of fire ! It is but agony of desire : If I can hope-Oh ! I can

Its fount is holier—more divineI would not call thee fool, old man,

But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit

Bow'd from its wild pride into shame. O yearning heart ! I did inherit

Thy withering portion with the fame, The searing glory which hath shone Amid the jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell! and with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear againO craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours ! The undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime, Rings, in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness—a knell.

I have not always been as now:
The fever'd diadem on my brow

I claimed and won usurpingly,
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Cæsar—this to me?

The heritage of a kingly mind,

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