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Whose sunrise beauty is by noontide past ;
That it should ever change, is but the curse
Shadowing our every earthly happiness ;
But, for one record of its fickleness
Are thousand memories of its deep, deep truth,-
Its entire faith, its self-devotedness.

On one side of the roof a golden blaze,
Curtained by crimson clouds, told that the Sun,
Heralded by her star, had met his bride,
The sweet young Morning; and around, a ring
Of radiant shapes were gathered ; in the midst
Was one, a very dream of loveliness,
Her hair streamed on the wind, a shower of gold
Hung from a crown of stars, and four white steeds
Were harnessed by spring blossoms to the car
Whereon she stood. Her eye was on a youth,
Graceful as young Endymion when the moon
Shed her pale smile upon his marble brow
And thick and raven curls : he stood beneath
A green beech tree, two hounds were by his side,
Impatient of his idleness, while he
Leant on his useless spear, watching the sleep
Of his young bride. He had just heard his name
Murmured, in tones low as a bird's first song
From her half opened lips, which like spring flowers
Drank the fresh air, then sighed it forth again
With added fragrance. There was shade around;
The laurel, and the darker bay, the oak,
All sacred as the crowns of fame. The first
Bound round the Poet's tuneful lyre; the next
Around the Warrior's helm, mixed with the pine
And with the waving poplar. In the midst,
As in a favourite haunt, were flowers entwined ;
And there the sleeper lay: one pearl white hand-
The violets rose to kiss its azure veins,
Coloured with their own purity, beneath
One cheek was as a pillow, and that one
Was flushed with crimson, while the other wore

A tint less warm, but not less beautiful
Two shades of blushing on the self-same rose;
And through the tremulous shadow of the leaves
Came two or three bright kisses from the sun,
Wandering in light o'er her white brow; shower
Of rose leaves lay amid the raven curls
Of her long hair and on her neck. That morn
Around her slender waist and graceful head
She had bound new-blown buds. But all fair things
Are very fragile, and each scattered bloom
Had fallen from the loosened braid: even those
Prisoners in the soft hand, which lay like snow
Upon the grass, had half escaped ; and there
She slept amid the roses she had gathered.

And round the walls were pictures : some, calm scenes
Of earth's green loveliness; and some, whose hues
Were caught from faces in whose smile our life
Is one of Paradise; and statues, whose white grace
Is as a dream of poetry. But, hung
Apart from all the rest, as if too dear
For aught but solitude, was one,—it was
The portrait of a lovely girl; the lips
Were such as Summer kisses, when he first
Touches the pure and rosy mouth of Spring;
A languid smile was on them, as just curled
By some soft thought, which spoke too in her eyes,
Dark and bewildering, with light like that
Of an Italian midnight, when the clouds
Send forth their summer lightning, but yet filled
With woman's tenderness. Those lips, those eyes,
Had been voluptuous, melting as they were,
But for the pale cheek, o'er which e'en a blush
Had scarcely passed, it looked so innocent;
And the white brow, with its dark parted hair
Shading its purity; and the clear temples,
Whose blue veins were half hidden by the braids
Of the thick tresses, which, unfastened, fell
Over the veiled bosom. The white dress

Just left the slender throat exposed, as fair,
As graceful, as the cygnet’s. Neither gems
Nor gold, marred youth's sweet simpleness ; but one
Slight flower lay on her neck, green rosebud,
Tinged with faint promise of its future bloom ;
And near it the young Painter leant his head,
Bowed, as in bitter thought upon his hand;
Over his cheek there was a burning, red,
Half passionate emotion, half disease,-
And the damp lay on his white brow, and hung
On his thick curls of auburn hair ; his eyes,
Blue as his native sky when it shines forth
Amid the pauses of an April shower,
Seemed as they drank the Moon's light, with such bright
And such wild glance they turned towards her ray.

He was a stranger in fair Italy:
He sought her kingdom, for it was a home
For genius and for beauty ; it had been
His land of promise through the sunny dreams
Of his impassioned boyhood; he had come
With a rich store of burning thoughts, of hopes
Like sunrise, vivid fancies, feelings wild,
High energies, all that young talent has ;
And he had nourished them amid those shades
Hallowed by memories of old, and still
Kept sacred by their own green pleasantness,—
Amid the glorious works of glorious men,-
Pictures alive with light, and stately domes
Built for eternity,–music like hope,
So very sweet,

and poetry, whose songs
Are Love's own words, until he dreamed that fame
Was a reality that he might win.
He dreamed but to awake with withered heart
And wasted health, and hopes like fallen stars,
Crushed and stained with the earth to which they fell.

Oh Genius! Aing aside thy starry crown,
Close up thy rainbow wings, and on thy head

Heap dust and ashes-for, this cold drear world
Is but thy prison-house. Alas! for him
Who has thy dangerous gifts, for they are like
The fatal ones that evil spirits give,
Bright and bewildering, leading unto death !
Oh, not amid the chill and earthly cares
That waste our life, may those fine feelings live
That are the Painter's or the Poet's light.

Amid the many graves which in the shade
Of Rome's dark cypresses are graved with names
Of foreign sound to Italy's sweet tongue,
Was one, an English name was on the stone ;-
There that young Painter slept :-around the sod
Were planted flowers and one or two green shrubs.
'Twas said that they were placed in fondness there

By an Italian Girl, whom he had loved !
Literary Gazette.

L. E. L.

SONNET.

BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

WHEN last we parted thou wert young and fair ;
How beautiful, let fond remembrance say !
Alas! since then, old Time has stol'n away
Full thirty years, leaving my temples bare.
So hath it perished like a thing of air,
The dream of Love and Youth !Now both are grey,
Yet still remembering that delightful day,
Though Time with his cold touch hath blanched my hair,
Though I have suffered many years of pain
Since then ; though I did never think to live
To hear that voice or see those eyes again,
I can a sad, but cordial greeting give,
And for thy welfare breathe as warm a prayer,

Lady, as when I loved thee young and fair !
Leeds Intelligencer.

MOUNTAIN,—who reignest o'er thine Alpine peers
Transcendently, and from that massive crown
Of arrowy brightness dartest down thy beams
Upon their lesser coronets,--all hail !
Unto the souls in hallowed musing rapt,
Spirits in which creation's glorious forms
Do shadow forth and speak the invisible,
The ethereal, the eternal, thou dost shine
With emblematic brightness. Those untrod
And matchless domes, though many a weary league
Beyond the gazer, when the misty veil
Dies round them, start upon his dazzled sight
In vastness almost tangible; thy smooth
And bold convexity of silent snows
Raised on the still and dark blue firmament !

Mountain,—Thou image of eternity !
Oh, let not foreign feet ,inquisitive,
Swift in untrained aspirings, proudly tempt
Thy searchless waste !-What half-taught fortitude
Can balance unperturbed above the clefts
Of yawning and unfathomable ice
That moat thee round; or wind the giddy ledge
Of thy sheer granite! Hath he won his way,
That young investigator ? Yes; but now,
Quick panting on superior snows, his frame
Trembles in dizziness; his wandering look
Drinks pale confusion; the wide scene is dim;
Its all of firm or fleeting, near or far,
Deep rolling clouds beneath, and wavering mists
That fit above him with their transient shades,
And storm-deriding rocks, and treacherous snows,
And blessed sun-light, in his dying eye
Float dubious; and 'tis midnight at his heart !

Mountain,—That firm and ardent Genevese,
The enthusiast child of science, whose bold foot

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