She touched her lute- -never again She took her cage, first kissed the breast- Then spread its glad wings to the air. Hid them, like spells, upon her bosom. She once before had traced, when lay A Christian in her father's chain; And gave him gold, and taught the way Made sweet and sacred by her breath. Bears the fair Moor across the tide ! 'Twas beautiful, by the pale moonlight, To mark her eyes,-now dark, now bright, As now they met, now shrank away, From the gaze that watched and worshipped their day. They stood on the deck, and the midnight gale Just waved the maiden's silver veil Just lifted a curl as if to show The cheek of rose that was burning below : And never spread a sky of blue More clear for the stars to wander through! A calmer or a lovelier sea! For every wave was a diamond gleam: Another evening came, but dark; The storm clouds hovered round the bark The distant shore of Italy, As the dim moon through vapours shone- Ill-omened brightness, sent by Death The winds howled round it, like a dirge The rush of thunder and of flame : The waves swept on: he felt her heart Surely their's is a pleasant sleep, For years alone beside the sea! That once had there their dwelling-place, The dark hair of the Moorish maid, Were heavy with the briny flood! Woe for the wind!-woe for the wave! Or yet lived in those dreams of truth, The Eden birds of early youth, That make the loveliness of love : And called the place "THE MAIDEN'S COVE,"- Might thus be kept in memory. FROM many a lip came sounds of praise, For many a boat had gathered round, t 50 As, till then, life had not been felt,→ And mine was sealed in the slight gaze With almost female softness, came Would come with fiery energy, In our own gallery, never bent More graceful, more magnificent; More nobly than the youth who now, I heard no word that others said Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh. My hand kept wandering on my lute, My pulses throbbed, my heart beat high, Crimsoned my cheek; I felt warm tears Amid my palace halls was one, Of white wood-doves, whose home was there : Or shapes whose every look was love; I threw me on a couch to rest, Loosely I flung my long black hair; I touched my lute,-it would not waken, Save to old songs of sorrowing Of hope betrayed-of hearts forsaken : IT ON THE EXERTION OF FEMALE TALENT. T is evident, from the many instances that have presented themselves to the world of feminine excellence, that the female mind is capable of profiting as much by cultivation and study as that of the other sex. We have had poetesses, philosophers, scholars, politicians, and moral writers, whose names will be handed down to future generations, who will rejoice in the truths diffused by their pens. From the mixed society that a young man is thrown into at his entrance into life, it is probable by the time he commences author he may not be fully convinced that something more is expected of those who can produce any thing worth the perusal, than that they should merely amuse. It is directly the reverse with the female; they are early taught, that to be esteemed they must be useful, and the same argument each wisely applies to her own heart. While the man is delighting in those displays which should have been the objects of regular culti vation, the female is wisely laying up those stores of knowledge which is to make her useful" in her day and generation." We think no one will deem this chimerical. Who can take up any of Miss Hamilton's works, and say they are not the result of great study? or who can peruse the varied effusions of Miss More, and not perceive, in every line, the manifestations of a persevering intellect. There have been several instances on record of females who have arrived at great proficiency in the dead languages, of which Mrs. Carter, Miss Eliza Smith, and the celebrated French critic Madame Dacier, are extraordinary examples; and now and then that sportive goddess, Nature, by way of showing the "lords of the creation" what she could do, has created one or two spirits somewhat amazonian. Of this small and select class was a lady of the name of Juliana Barnes, who flourished several hundred years ago, and who wrote an elaborate treatise on hunting, hawking, and fishing, which may be found in the libraries of bibliomaniacs. Also Lettice Bigby, Bareness Offaley, who, during the tumults in Ireland in 1642, most valiantly defended her castle at Geashill against all assailants. It would be difficult to mention the sphere of life where females have not determined to be celebrated: that they have been so the varied works of Madame de Stael, and the epistles of Madame de Sevigné, may be cited as instances almost worthy of being termed wonderful of female talent. The great powers of reasoning of the former, and the wit and discernment of every intrigue that was carrying on in the magnificent but dissolute court of Louis XIV. which is displayed in the letters of the latter, may be cited as illustrative of this remark. That they should excel as poetesses and novelists is not very wonderful; there is an imaginativeness and innate delicacy in the female mind admirably adapted to the composition of works of fiction; yet to what noble purposes have not some of this hitherto despised class of literature been rendered subservient to women. The works of that great moralist Edgeworth, and the beautiful and religious novels of the late Mrs. Brunton, are eminent examples of the justice of this conclusion. It is not irrelevant here to state, that we do not conceive it difficult to assign satisfying reasons for the contempt so lavishly bestowed on this genius of composition. Formerly every miserable wight, who could string a few sentences together, wrote novels, and we had productions in comparison with which the "renowned History of Daddy Two Shoes, on Three Legs," might fairly be termed sublime and beautiful; but this day has fled for ever, and amiable suicides, and love-sick robbers can de |