TO JESSY. BY LORD BYRON. THERE is a mystic thread of life So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That Destiny's relentless knife At once must sever both or none. There is a form on which these eyes There is a voice whose tones inspire Such thrills of rapture through my breast, I would not hear a seraph choir Unless that voice could join the rest. There is a face whose blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek; But pallid at one fond farewell, Proclaims more love than words can speak. There is a lip which mine hath prest, It vowed to make me sweetly blest, There is a bosom-all my own Hath pillowed oft this aching head; A mouth that smiles on me alone, An eye whose tears with mine are shed. There are two hearts whose movements thrill In unison so closely sweet, That, pulse to pulse responsive still, They both must heave-or cease to beat. There are two souls whose equal flow, In gentle streams so calmly run, That when they part-They part?—Ah, no! THE NYMPH OF THE STREAM. BY MRS. HUNTER. NYMPH of the mountain-stream, thy foaming urn No plant can flourish and no flower can blow ;— Yet not in vain thy murmuring fountain flows,— And charms the eye, the ear, the soul, of taste;- And when far distant from the glowing scene Of castles, winding straths, and tufted woods, From Lomond's fairy banks, and islands green, His cloud-capt mountains, and his silver floods, Memory shall turn in many a waking dream, To meet thee, lonely Nymph! beside thy mountain-stream. English Minstrelsy. ITALY. A FRAGMENT. EARTH'S loveliest land, I behold thee in dreams, Through the bright summer azure, the north breezes flow, The soft and voluptuous spirit of love, Rules in earth and in ether-below and above!— At his presence the rose takes a ruddier bloom, Blackwood's Magazine. LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF NAPLES. BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. THE sun is warm, the sky is clear, Like many a voice of one delight— The city's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's. I see the Deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown; I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion: How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within, nor calm around, Nor that content surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found, And walked with inward glory crowned- Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, Which I have borne and yet must bear, My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Some might lament that I were cold, They might lament-for I am one Whom men love not, and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. INSCRIPTION ON A NATURAL GROTTO, NEAR A DEEP STREAM. HEALTH, rose-lipped cherub, haunts this spot: If in the shade you trace her not, Plunge and you'll find her in the brook! |