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And thou art very bold to take
What we must still deny :
I cannot tell; the charm was wrought
By other threads than mine,
The lips are lightly begg'd or bought,
The heart may not be thine!

"Yet thine the brightest smiles shall be
That ever Beauty wore,
And confidence from two or three,
And compliments from more :
And one shall give-perchance
What only is not love;
Friendship,-oh! such as saints in heaven
Rain on us from above.

hath given,

If she shall meet thee in the bower,
Or name thee in the shrine,

Oh! wear the ring, and guard the flower,-
Her heart may not be thine!

"Go, set thy boat before the blast,
Thy breast before the gun :-
The haven shall be reach'd at last,
The battle shall be won:

Or muse upon thy country's laws,
Or strike thy country's lute;-
And patriot hands shall sound applause,
And lovely lips be mute:

Go, dig the diamond from the wave,
The treasure from the mine;
Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave,-
No woman's heart is thine!

"I charm thee from the agony
Which others feel or feign;
From anger, and from jealousy,

From doubt, and from disdain :
I bid thee wear the scorn of years
Upon the cheek of youth,
And curl the lip at passion's tears,
And shake the head at truth:
While there is bliss in revelry,
Forgetfulness in wine,

Be thou from woman's love as free,
As woman is from thine!"?




The dangerous islet called the Bell Rock, on the coast of Fife, used formerly to be marked only by a Bell, which was so placed as to be swung by the motion of the waves, when the tide rose above the rock. A light-house has since been erected there.

When the tide's billowy swell
Had reached its height,
Then tolled the rock's lone bell,
Sternly by night.

Far over cliff and surge
Swept the deep sound,
Making each wild wind's dirge
Still more profound.

Yet that funereal tone
The sailor bless'd,
Steering through darkness on,
With fearless breast.

E'en so may we, that float
On life's wide sea,
Welcome each warning note,
Stern though it be!


"Oh! cast thou not

Affection from thee! in this bitter world
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast,
Watch-guard it-suffer not a breath to dim
The bright gem's purity."

If thou hast crush'd a flower,

The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quench'd a lamp,

Once more it may be lighted;
But on thy harp, or on thy lute,

The string which thou hast broken,
Shall never in sweet sound again
Give to thy touch a token!

If thou hast loos'd a bird,

Whose voice of song could cheer thee,
Still, still, he may be won

From the skies to warble near thee;
But if upon the troubled sea

Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded,
Hope not that wind or wave shall bring
The treasure back when needed.

If thou hast bruis'd a vine,

The Summer's breath is healing,
And its cluster yet may grow

Through the leaves their bloom revealing;
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown,

With a bright draught fill'd-oh! never Shall Earth give back that lavish'd wealth To cool thy parch'd lips' fever!

The heart is like that cup,

If thou waste the love it bore thee,

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And like that jewel gone,

Which the deep will not restore thee;
And like that string of harp or lute,

Whence the sweet sound is scatter'd-
Gently, oh! gently touch the chords,
So soon for ever shatter'd!


SHE dwelt in proud Venetian halls,
'Midst forms that breathed from the pictured walls;
But a glow of beauty like her own,
There had no dream of the painter thrown.
Lit from within was her noble brow,

As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow;
Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue,
As if ye might see how the soul wrought through;
And every flash of her fervent eye
Seem'd the bright wakening of poesy.

Even thus it was!-from her childhood's years,—
A being of sudden smiles and tears,—
Passionate visions, quick light and shade,-
Such was that high-born Italian maid!
And the spirit of song, in her bosom cell
Dwelt, as the odors in violets dwell,
Or as the sounds in the Eolian strings,-
Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings;
There, ever there, with the life enshrin'd,
And waiting the call of the faintest wind.

Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea,
In the city's hour of moonlight glee,-
Oft would that gift of the southern sky,
O'erflow from her lips in melody;
Oft amid festal halls it came,

Like the springing forth of a sudden flame-
Till the dance was hush'd, and the silvery tone
Of her inspiration was heard alone.

And Fame went with her, the bright, the crown'd,
And Music floated her steps around;
And every lay of her soul was borne
Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn.

And was the daughter of Venice blest,
With a rower so deep in her youthful breast?
Could she be happy, o'er whose dark eye
So many changes and dreams went by?
And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought,
As if but born from the rush of thought?
-Yes! in the brightness of joy awhile
She moved, as a bark in the sunbeam's smile;
For her spirit, as over her lyre's full chord,
All, all on a happy love was pour'd!
How loves a heart, whence the stream of song
Flows like the life-blood, quick, bright, and strong?
How loves a heart which hath ever proved

One breath of the world?-Even so she loved!
Blest, though the lord of her soul afar,
Was charging the foremost in Moslem war,
Bearing the flag of St. Mark's on high,
As a ruling star in the Grecian sky.
Proud music breathed in her song, when Fame
Gave a tone more thrilling to his name;
And her trust in his love was a woman's faith-
Perfect, but fearing no change but death.

But the fields are won from the Ottoman host,
In the land that quell'd the Persian's boast-
And a thousand hearts in Venice burn,
For the day of triumph and return!
-The day is come! the flashing deep
Foams, where the galleys of Victory sweep;
And the sceptred city of the wave,
With her festal splendor greets the brave;
Cymbal and clarion, and voice around,
Make the air one stream of exulting sound,
While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles,
Look from each hall of the hundred isles.

Bat happiest and brightest that day of all,
Robed for her warrior's festival,
Moving a queen 'midst the radiant throng,
Was she, th' inspired one, the Maid of Song!

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