Must be sweeter for life than music's fall,

And, this side heaven,

Thy lip may never that trust recall.

Pass thou on! yet many an eye
Will droop and glisten;

And the hushing heart in vain will try
To still its pulse as thy step goes by,
And we vainly listen

For thy voice of witching melody.

Pass thou on! yet a sister's tone

In its sweetness lingers,

Like some twin echo sent back alone,

Or the bird's soft note when its mate hath flown;

And a sister's fingers

Will again o'er the thrilling harp be thrown.

And our eyes will rest on their foreheads fair,
And our hearts awaken

Whenever we come where their voices are

But oh, we shall think how musical were,

Ere of thee forsaken,

The mingled voices we listed there.

TO A COQUETTE.

EXQUISITE Laura! with thy pouting lip

And the arch smile that makes me constant so,

Tempting me still, like a dull bee, to sip

The flower I should have left so long ago

Beautiful Laura! who art just so fair

That I can think thee loveliest when alone,
And still art not so wonderfully rare

That I could never find a prettier one-
Fetterless Laura! laughing, sighing, crying,
In the same breath, and gravest with the gay
So wild that Cupid ever shoots thee flying,
And knows his archery is thrown away-
Inconstant as I am, I cannot yet

Break thy sweet chain, oh merciless coquette !

THE TABLE OF EMERALD.

“Deep, it is said, under yonder pyramid, has for ages lain concealed the Table of Emerald, on which the thrice-great Hermes engraved, before the flood, the secret of alchymy that gives gold at will."

Moore's Epicurean.

THAT Emerald vast of the Pyramid

Were I where it is laid,

I would ask no king for his heavy crown

As its mystic words were said.

The pomp

of wealth, the show of power,

In vain for me would shine,

And naught that brings the mind a care
Would win bright gold of mine.

Would I feast all day-revel all night-
Laugh with a secret sadness?
Would I sleep away the breezy morn
And wake to the goblet's madness?
Would I spend no time and no golden ore
For the wisdom that sages knew?
Would I run to waste with a human mind,
To its holy trust untrue?

Oh knew I the depth of that Emerald spell,
And had I the gold it brings,

I would never load with a feaster's joy
My spirit's mounting wings.

I would bind no wreath to my brow to-day,
That would leave a stain to-morrow,

Nor drink a draught of joy to-night

That would change with morn to sorrow.

But, oh! I would burst this chain of forms, And be spirit and fancy-free;

For costly aid to my mind alone

Should my gold be scatter'd free.

I would place my foot on my heaps of ore To mount to Wisdom's throne,

And buy, with the wealth of an Indian mine, To be left, of care, alone.

Ambition! my lip would laugh to scorn
Thy plume and thy gleaming sword!
I would follow sooner a woman's eye
Or a child's imperfect word;

But come with the glory of human thought,
And the light of the scholar's brow,
And my heart shall be taught forgetfulness
And alone at thy altar bow!

There was one mild eye-there was one deep tone-
They were dear to this heart of mine!
Dearer to me was that mild blue eye

Than the light on Wisdom's shrine.
My soul brought up from its deepest cell
The sum of its earthly love;

But it could not buy her wing from heaven,
And she flew to her home above.

That first deep love I have taken back
In my rayless breast to hide ;

With the tear it brought for a burning seal,
"Twill there forever bide.

I may stretch on now to another goal-
I may feed my thoughts of flame-
The tie is broken that kept me back,
And my mind speeds on-for fame.

But, alas! I am dreaming as if I knew
The spell of the tablet green!

I forget how like to a broken reed

Is the hope on which I lean.

There is nothing true of my idle dream
But the wreck of my early love,

And my mind is coin'd for my daily bread,
And how can it soar above?

THE BROKEN BRACELET.

'Twas broken in the gliding dance,

When thou wert in thy dream of power, When lip and motion, smile and glance Were lovely all-the belle's bright hour. The light lay soft upon thy brow,

The music melted in thine ear, And one, perchance forgotten now,

With 'wilder'd thoughts, stood musing near, Marvelling not that links of gold

A pulse like thine had not controll'd.

'Tis midnight now-the dancers goneAnd thou in thy rich dreams asleep; And I, awake, am gazing on

The fragments given me to keep.

I think of every glowing vein

That ran beneath these links of gold,

And wonder if a thrill of pain

Made those bright channels ever cold! With gifts like thine, I cannot think Grief ever chill'd this broken link.