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A beauty ripe as harvest,
Than silver, snow, or lilies.
A soft lip,
and flesh that melteth in the touch to blood. But we may cease to wonder at their union, when we reflect on the couples we see every day—so totally dissimilar in taste and external appearance, that we may almost believe with St. Pierre, that we love only those who form a contrast to ourselves. “Love,” he says, “results only from contrasts, and the greater they are, the more powerful is its energy. I could easily demonstrate this by the evidence of a thousand historical facts. It is well known, for example, to what mad excess of passion that tall and clumsy soldier, Mark Antony, loved and was beloved by Cleopatra; not the person whom our sculptors represent of a tall, portly, Sabine figure, but the Cleopatra whom historians paint as little, lively and sprightly, carried in disguise about the streets of Alexandria, in the night time, packed up in a parcel of goods on the shoulders of Apollodorus, to keep an assignation with Julius Cæsar.”
TO NIAGARA. I've stood, Niagara! on thy Table Rock,
And gazed upon thy falls, in speechless wonder; I've heard the deep reverberating shock
Where plunge thy waters with the voice of thunder;
And now although we are so far asunder,
Still-still on thine immensity I ponder,
Thou com’st upon me ever,--day and night ;
Thy rapids, whirling-lashing-foaming-roaring, Sweeping round Iris island in their flight,
In their strong eddies, ev'ry thing devouring,
Rush on my vision in the downward pouring So furious-wild-magnificent and vast,
They lift me, mentally, to heaven upsoaring, To him, from whose eternal hands were cast Those floods, so many thousand ages past. Type of our world! thus rush we on forever
In fierce contention, and in endless brawls, Poor human wretches down life's rapid river
In quick succession unto death's dark falls ; The fearful leap the shudd’ring soul appals; O'er the dread brink, we all must hurrying go;
The God of heaven alone can heed our calls, Eternity's vast chasm yawns below ;But o'er the dark gulf the Lord hath spann’d his bow.
My footsteps track again, that lovely spot,
Thine isle fast anchord 'midst the raging flood; I muse on him, who once there cast his lot,
And fled his fellows, in some angry mood;
At midnight, it is told the mourner stood Communing with thy cataract-alone
What were those ills o'er which he loved to brood ? What disapointments turn'd his heart to stone ? Or what the cries of conscience, thou alone couldst
I ramble yet on that romantic path
Trod by a countless multitude before ;
And gaze until I dare to gaze no more ;
Then wand'ring on along thy rock-bound shore, I see, far off, that solitary land,
That speck of earth, round which you madly roar, Whereon the foot of man shall never stand, Stayed by the terrors of thy dread command.
There 'mid the breakers, lies the old Detroit !
What recollections rise up with her name! Brave Barclay's ship in Erie's far famed fight,
When Perry wrapp'd her in a sheet of flame
To view thy horseshoe, in the sun's soft light;
flight, For then, like “one entire chrysolite”
One half thy torrent seem'd--the rest pure white Like piles of fleecy clouds at close of day,
Bui rushing down from that stupendous height With rainbows, gilding the rebounding sprayOh words !-ye are two weak-away-away.
LINES WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF MISS A. F. B.
I come lost Anne! from thy father's hall,
Where once it was sweet to be,
On the foot of delight and glee.
And the voice I loved were fled,
And the soft and the sylph-like tread.
The light of the hall was gone,
To weep by her grave, alone.
Oh God! have they left thee here, sweet child !
Deep laid in the silent tomb, Where willows that weep and hawthorns wild
But add to the reigning gloom?
What! thou left here in the dark, dark night
When the air with the tempest roars ? And the heavens gleam with the lightning bright
And the storm in a torrent pours ?
What Anne! whose bed a mother once made
And over it fondly hung ?-
That breast unto madness wrung ?
She whose eye was the azure heaven
Lit up by its light divine ?
And tresses the gay sunshine ?
Transition abhorr’d !-oh fearful thought?
But little one! who sleeps near ?-
By the side of his sister dear?
Sweet babes! and have ye no parent now
In the deep and the darksome bed ?No pitying hand that can gladness throw
O'er the place of the silent dead ?
Oh! yes, the book of the holy one
Hath a hope through a Saviour known The caskets are here, but the gems are gone
To be set by the Sardine throne.
The body sleeps till the trumpet calls
Lock'd then in endearing arms, Together ascend to the jasper walls
The city of eternal charms.
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
A pleasing land of drowsyhead it was
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, And of gay castles in the clouds that
pass, Forever flushing round a summer sky. -Thomson.
In yonder clouds by sunset gilt,
1, mimic castles see;
In air—by me, by me.
Bereft, bright sun! of thee;
Crumbling-round me, round me.
I'd set my fancy free,
Bright domes—like ye! like ye!
And who their queen should be ?
Lov'd one!--for thee, for thee.
'Midst revelry and glee,Who struck the sceptre from my hand
The lov'd !-'twas she, 'twas she,
She broke the magic wand I own'd;
Disdain'd my queen to be;
Despair—in me, in me.
Rich sunsets! now,
it wakes a pangDeep pang, to gaze on yeYour
gorgeousness but serves to hang Dark clouds-o'er me, o'er me.