Smile on, then, little winsome thing,
All rich in nature's measure; Thou hast within thy heart a spring
Of self-renewing pleasure;
Smile on, fair child, and take thy fill
Of mirth, till time shall end it;
"Tis Nature's wise and gentle will,
And who shall reprehend it?
Knight's Quarterly Magazine.
THEY sin who tell us love can die ;-
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell,
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ;
Earthly these passions as of earth,
They perish when they have their birth;
But love is indestructible,-
Its holy flame for ever burneth,—
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest;
It here is tried and purified,
And hath in heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there.
Oh when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the anxious night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight!
THE soft gale of summer, though past,
Will breathe of the rose it loved last;
Thus divided by land and by sea,
My soul whispers fondly of thee.
And to me thou art now as a star,
In the blue depths of heaven afar;
On which, from the gloom of my lot,
I can gaze till my griefs are forgot.
And my spirit full oft when it turns
From the cold hearted crowd which it spurns,
Confesses with pain, yet with pride,
It hath found but One like thee beside.
I may err-and have erred, for a mind
That finds not repose-nor can find-
All helmless and havenless tost,
Like a wreck on the ocean-is lost.
But oh! when most wild or most weak,
Let me think of the tear on thy cheek,-
And, as one from a serpent would start,
My soul and her madness shall part.
I once sighed for the wreath that is wove
Round the brow of the blest in their love;
And I burned for the raptures that steal
Through those hearts which are felt for, and feel;
I once hoped the proud laurel should bloom,
Ever green on my temple, or tomb,-
And I thought round this rude harp of mine,
An amaranth leaf might entwine.
Alas! they were dreams that pass on,
Like a cloud o'er the moon, and are gone!
For the stone that may tell of my name,
Shall speak not of fortune or fame.
Yet, dear one, though hopeless I be,
Divided and distant from Thee,
My lot shall not make me repine,
Whilst thy fondness and friendship are mine.
Farewell! with thy purity blest,
Be still my own star in the west!
For thy beam has a passionate spell,
Which binds me to earth-Fare-thee-well!
Ir memory ever should whisper the name
Of one who hath loved thee not wisely, but well,
And dwelt on thy charms with that passionate flame,
Which none but the soul of a poet can tell-
Remember his heart was not tempered like those
Who have never awoke to the exquisite touch,
Which passion imparts to the bosom that glows,
Till its error in love is in loving too much.
Remember, if fondness seduced him too far,
The language that broke from thine eloquent eye;—
For who could be blind to so brilliant a star,
If it beamed but on him, though a thousand were by?
And remember, whilst others are bound by its spell, With what ills and what anguish his spirit must cope, Who breathes thee this wild and eternal farewell :They hope while they love, but he loves without hope! Literary Gazette.
I know not which is the most fatal gift,
Genius or Love, for both alike are ruled
By stars of bright aspect and evil influence.
He was a lonely and neglected child ;—
His cheek was colourless, save when the flush
Of strong emotion mastered its still whiteness;
His dark eyes seemed all heaviness and gloom,—
So rarely were they raised. His mother's love
Was for her other children;-they were fair,
And had health's morning hues and sunny looks.
She had not seen him, when he watched the sun
Setting at eve, like an idolater,
Until his cheek grew crimson in the light
Of the so radiant heavens, and his eyes
Were eloquently beautiful, all filled
With earth's most glorious feelings. And his father,
A warrior and a hunter, one whose grasp
Was ever on the bridle or the brand,
Had no pride in a boy whose joy it was
To sit for hours by a lone fountain's side,
Listening its low and melancholy song;
Or wander through the gardens silently,
As if with leaves and flowers alone he held
Aught of companionship. In his first years
They sent him to a convent, for they said,
Its solitude would suit with GUIDO's mood:
And there he dwelt, treasuring those rich thoughts
That are the food on which young genius lives.
He rose to watch the sunlight over Rome
Break from its purple shadows, making glad
Even that desolate city, whose dim towers,
Ruins and palaces, seem as they looked
Back on departed time; then in the gloom
Of his own convent's silent burying ground,
Where, o'er the quiet dead, the cypress mourned,
He passed the noon, dreaming those dear day-dreams,
Not so much hopes as fancies; then at eve,
When, through the painted windows, the red sun
Rainbowed the marble floor with radiant hues,
Where spread the ancient church's stately arch,
He stayed, till the deep music of the hymn,
Chaunted to the rich organ's rolling notes,
Bade farewell to the day; then to his cell
He went, and through the casement's iron bars
The moon looked on him, beautiful as love,
Lighting his slumber. On the church's wall
There hung one lovely portrait, and for hours
Would GUIDO, in the fulness of his heart,
Kneel, watching, till he wept. The subject was
A dying Magdalene: her long black hair
Spread round her like a shroud, one pale thin hand
Pillowed a cheek as thin and pale, and scarce
The blue light of the eyes was visible,
For the death dampness on the darkened lids,
As one more effort to look on the cross,
Which seemed just falling from the fainting arm,
And they would close for ever. In that look,
There was a painter's immortality!
And GUIDO felt it deeply,-for a gift
Like his whose work that was, was given him,—
A gift of beauty and of power,—and soon
He lived but in the beautiful creations
His pencil called to life. But as his thoughts
Took wider range, he languished to behold
More of a world he thought must be so fair,
So filled with glorious shapes. It chanced that he
Whose hand had traced that pale sad loveliness,
Came to the convent; with rejoicing wonder,
He marked how like an unknown mine, whose gold
Gathers in silence, had young GUIDO's mind
Increased in lonely richness; every day
New veins of splendid thoughts sprang into life.
And GUIDO left his convent cell with one,
Who, like a Génie, bore him into scenes
Of marvel and enchantment. And then first
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