Gardens, where iings the bridge its airy span,
And Nature makes her happy home with man;
Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed
With its own rill, on its own spangled bed,
And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head,
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn
Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn ;---
Thine all delights, and every muse is thine ;
And more than all, the embrace and intertwine
Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance !
Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance,
See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees
The new-found roll of old Mæonides ;'
But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart,
Peers Ovid's holy book of Love's sweet smart ! 2

O all-enjoying and all-blending sage,
Long be it mine to con thy mazy page,

1 Boccaccio claimed for himself the glory of having first introduced the works of Homer to his countrymen.

? I know few more striking or more interesting proofs of the overwhelming influence which the study of the Greek and Roman classics exercised on the judgments, feelings, and imaginations of the literati of Europe at the commencement of the restoration of literature, than the passage in the Filocopo of Boccaccio: where the sage instructor, Racheo, as soon as the young prince and the beautiful girl Biancofiore had learned their letters, sets them to study the Holy Book, Ovid's Art of Love. “Incominciò Racheo a mettere il suo officio in esecuzione con intera sollecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, insegnato a conoscer le lettere, fece leggere il santo libro d’Ovvidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come i santi fuochi di Venere si debbano ne' freddi cuori accendere."

Where, half conceal'd, the eye of fancy views Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to

thy muse!

Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,
And see in Dian's vest between the ranks
Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes
The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves,
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves !





Thou leapest from forth
The cell of thy hidden nativity ;
Never mortal saw
The cradle of the strong one;
Never mortal heard
The gathering of his voices;
The deep-murmured charm of the son of the rock,
That is lisp'd evermore at his slumberless fountain.
There's a cloud at the portal, a spray-woven veil
At the shrine of his ceaseless renewing;
It embosoms the roses of dawn,
It entangles the shafts of the noon,
And into the bed of its stillness
The moonshine sinks down as in slumber,

That the son of the rock, that the nursling of heaven May be born in a holy twilight!


The wild goat in awe


and beholds
Above thee the cliff inaccessible ;-
Thou at once full-born
Madd’nest in thy joyance,
Whirlest, shatter'st, splitt'st,
Life invulnerable.



LIKE a lone Arab, old and blind
Some caravan had left behind
Who sits beside a ruin'd well,

Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell ;
And now he hangs his aged head aslant,
And listens for a human sound-in vain !
And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant,
Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain ;-
Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour,
Resting my eye upon a drooping plant,
With brow low bent, within my garden bower,
I sate upon the couch of camomile ;
And—whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance,
Flitted across the idle brain, the while
I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope,
In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance,

Turn'd my eye inward-thee, O genial Hope,
Love's elder sister ! thee did I behold,
Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold,
With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim

Lie lifeless at my feet !
And then came Love, à sylph in bridal trim,

And stood beside my seat;
She bent, and kissed her sister's lips,

As she was wont to do;-
Alas ! 'twas but a chilling breath
Woke just enough of life in death

To make Hope die anew.

Anxious to associate the name of a most dear and honored

friend with my own, I solicited and obtained the permission of Professor J. H. Green to permit the insertion of the two following poems, by him composed.



The house is a prison, the school-room's a cell ;
Leave study and books for the upland and dell;
Lay aside the dull poring, quit home and quit care;
Sally forth! Sally forth! Let us breathe the fresh air!
The sky dons its holiday mantle of blue ;
The sun sips his morning refreshment of dew;
Shakes joyously laughing his tresses of light,
And here and there turns his eye piercing and bright;
Then jocund mounts up on his glorious car,
With smiles to the morn,—for he means to go far;--

While the clouds, that had newly paid court at his

levee, Spread sail to the breeze, and glide off in a bevy. Tree, and tree-tufted hedge-row, and sparkling be

tween Dewy meadows enamelled in gold and in green, With king-cups and daisies, that all the year please, Sprays, petals and leaflets, that nod in the breeze, With carpets, and garlands, and wreaths, deck the

way, And tempt the blithe spirit still onward to stray, Itself its own home;—far away! far away!

The butterflies flutter in pairs round the bower;
The humble-bee sings in each bell of each flower;
The bee hums of heather and breeze-wooing hill,
And forgets in the sunshine his toil and his skill ;
The birds carol gladly!--the lark mounts on high;
The swallows on wing make their tune to the eye,
And as birds of good omen, that summer loves well,
Ever wheeling weave ever some magical spell.
The hunt is abroad :-hark! the horn sounds its note,
And seems to invite us to regions remote.
The horse in the meadow is stirred by the sound,
And neighing impatient o'erleaps the low mound;
Then proud in his speed o'er the champaign he

[hounds. To the whoop of the huntsmen and tongue of the Then stay not within, for on such a blest day We can never quit home, while with Nature we stray; far away,



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