IMITATED FROM THE PERSIAN.

WOULD my love, I could give thee a beautiful bird,

To hover around thee and come at thy word; With plumage all gorgeous in violet and gold, And form that would tell of a heavenly mould.

With warblings of Paradise silvery bright, To lull thy soft slumbers all through the long night,

To fondle around thee with playful caress,

And drop precious pearls 'midst each dark silken tress.

Alas! I command not an offering so rare,
No bird of such beauty e'er cleaves our cold air;
The dearest gift, Anna, with which I can part,
Accept it, though poor, yet a fond loving heart.

G. HALEY.

M

THE ANDALUSIAN MAID.

FROM THE SPANISH.

I LOVE, when the summer sun hath set,
O'er the dark blue hills of Spain,
To list to the sound of the castanet,
And the peasant's simple strain.
I love the mantilla's easy grace,
When carelessly 'tis laid

To shade, yet shew, the lovely face
Of the Andalusian Maid.

I love to rest by the orange tree,
Whose perfume breathes around,
And gaze on the forms that seemingly
Scarce touch the velvet ground:
And I love the zapato's glossy hue,
As dark as the silken braid

Which nestles to rest on the bosom true

Of the Andalusian Maid.

I love, when the glare of day has gone,

To watch the evening star,

When borne on the breeze the strain comes on From some distant light guitar;

And who that hath stood on the martial plain,
Where the Moslem's spear was laid,
Would not wish to visit the land again
Of the Andalusian Maid?

J. D. ROWNEY.

TO A LADY BLUSHING.

THE lilies faintly to the roses yield,

As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie; Who would not strive upon so sweet a field To win the mastery?

And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes revealed, Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unsealed.

I could not wish that in thy bosom aught Should e'er one moment's transient pain awaken,

Yet can't regret that thou-forgive the thought-As flowers when shaken

Will yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind, Should, ruffled thus, betray thy heavenly mind.

HOFFMAN.

TO CASTARA.

We saw and woo'd each other's eyes;
My soul contracted them with thine,
And both burnt in one sacrifice,

By which our marriage grew divine.

Let wilder youth, whose soul is sense, Profane the shrine where virtue reigns, And purchase endless penitence,

Galled by the thorns of pleasure's chains.

Time's ever ours, while we despise
The sensual idol of our clay:
For though the sun do set and rise,
We joy one everlasting day;

Whose light no jealous clouds obscure,
As each of us shine innocent,

The troubled stream is still impure:
While virtue flies away content.

And though opinion often err,

We'll court the modest smile of fame;

For sin's black danger circles her,

Who hath infection in her name.

Thus when to one dark silent room
Death shall our loving coffins thrust,
Fame will build columns on our tomb,
And add a perfume to our dust!

W. HABINGTON.

THE FAREWELL.

THE Conflict is over, the struggle is past, I have look'd-I have loved-I have worshipp'd my last,

And now back to the world, and let Fate do her

worst

On the heart that for thee such devotion hath

nursed;

To thee its best feelings were trusted away.
And life hath hereafter not one to betray.

Yet not in resentment thy love I resign;

I blame not-upbraid not—one motive of thine, I ask not what change has come over thy heart; I reck not what changes have doom'd us to part; I but know thou hast told me to love thee no more, And I still must obey where I once did adore.