AN ARABIAN SONG,

FOUNDED ON AN ANECDOTE RELATED BY AN ORIENTAL

TRAVELLER.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

AWAY! though still thy sword is red,
With life-blood from my sire;
No drop of thine may now be shed,
To quench my spirit's fire,

Though on my heart, 'twould fall more blest,
Than dews upon the desert's breast.

I've sought thee 'midst the haunts of men,—
Through the wide city's fanes;

I've sought thee by the lion's den,
O'er pathless, boundless plains;
No step that tracked the burning waste,
But I its lonely course have traced.

Thy name hath been a baleful spell,
O'er my dark bosom cast;

No thought may dream, no words may tell
What there unseen hath passed :—

This hollow cheek, this faded eye,

Are seals of thee-behold, and fly!

Haste thee, and leave my threshold-floor,
Inviolate and pure;

Let not thy presence tempt me more-
Man may not thus endure.

Away! I bear a fettered arm,

A heart that burns-but must not harm!

Hath not my cup for thee been poured,
Beneath the palm-tree's shade!
Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored,
Within my dwelling laid!

What though unknown-yet who shall rest
Secure if not the Arab's guest?

Begone! outstrip the fleet Gazelle !

The wind in speed subdue;
Fear cannot fly so swift, so well,

As vengeance shall pursue!
And hate, like love-in parting pain,
Smiles o'er one hope-we meet again.

To-morrow and the avenger's hand,
The warrior's dart is free;
E'en now, no spot in all the land,

Save this, had sheltered thee:-
Let blood the monarch's hall profane,
The Arab's tent must bear no stain!

Fly! may the desert's fiery blast
Avoid thy sacred way,

And fettered, till thy steps be past,
Its whirlwinds sleep to-day :-
I would not, that thy doom should be
Assigned by Heaven, to aught but me.
Literary Gazette.

A PERSIAN PRECEPT.

BY HERBERT KNOWLES.

FORGIVE thy foes;-nor that alone;
Their evil deeds with good repay;

Fill those with joy who leave thee none,
And kiss the hand upraised to slay.

So does the fragrant Sandal bow

In meek forgiveness to its doom; And o'er the axe at every blow, Sheds in abundance rich perfume!

SONG OF THE ZEPYRS.

O'ER the lofty swelling mountain,—
O'er the dancing summer fountain,—
By the towering forest waving,-
By the brook, the willows laving,
Wafting odorous airs along,

We pour the mellow-breathing song.

Little wanton, winged rovers,
Oft we tend the walks of lovers;
Witness smiles with passion glowing,
Souls with tenderness o'erflowing,
Vows, that, fainting on the tongue,
Mingle with our breezy song!

Oft we fan the flame that rushes
O'er the maiden's cheek, in blushes :
Softly to her swain revealing

All the luxury of feeling,

In her bosom-though so strong

Gentle as our airy song!

Oft we, in our sportive duty,
Kiss the dimpling cheek of beauty,-
And on soft ethereal winglets
Wanton in her sunny ringlets,-
Breathing, as we dance along,
Liquid notes of rapturous song!

When Care's ever-rising bubble
Clouds the wanderer's soul with trouble,
We-sweet Pleasure's viewless minions
Fan his brow with balmy pinions,

Chasing sorrow's shades along,
With our spirit-soothing song.

While the sweets of eve diffusing,
Oft we meet the poet musing,

Mark his eye, sublimely glancing,
With erratic thought entrancing!
Catching inspiration strong,
From our soul-enchanting song.

Oft we waft the pious whispers
Of the saint's low-breathing vespers—
Sighs of love, and tears of sorrow,—
For our sweetest strains we borrow ;-
Bearing on our wings along,

All the extasy of song,

New Monthly Magazine.

STANZAS,

ON BURNING A PACKET OF LETTERS.

J. L. W

COLD is the hand that gives thee to the flame,
Sweet source of pleasure in my early years!
But, O ye friends! to me impute no blame,
I mark its quick destruction through my tears.

Cold was the hand that at one cast destroyed
Sweet friendship, which, upon that crackling scroll,
Depicted was; even where, with skill employed,
Her pen had traced the kindness of her soul.

Ah! why the proof of former joy preserve!
A present grief 'twere folly to retain ;
Years to encrease the change would only serve;
And every change would add severer pain.

MELANCHOLY.

BY J. MOIR, ESQ.

THE sun of the morning,
Unclouded and bright,
The landscape adorning
With lustre and light,
To glory and gladness

New bliss may impart ;—
But, oh! give to sadness

And softness of heart

A moment to ponder, a season to grieve,
The light of the moon, or the shadows of eve!

Then soothing reflections

Arise on the mind;

And sweet recollections

Of friends who were kind;

Of love that was tender,

And yet could decay;

of visions whose splendour
Time withered away;

In all that for brightness or beauty may seem
The painting of fancy-the work of a dream!

The soft cloud of whiteness,

The stars beaming through,
The pure moon of brightness,
The deep sky of blue;—
The rush of the river,

Through vales that are still,

The breezes that ever

Sigh lone o'er the hill,

Are sounds that can soften, and sights that impart

A bliss to the eye, and a balm to the heart.

Constable's Edinburgh Magazine.