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She touched her lute--never again
Her ear will listen to its strain !
She took her cage, first kissed the breast

Then freed the white dove prisoned there :
It paused one moment on her hand,

Then spread its glad wings to the air. She drank the breath, as it were health,

That sighed from every scented blossom ; And, taking from each one a leaf,

Hid them, like spells, upon her bosom. Then sought the secret path again

She once before had traced, when lay
A Christian in her father's chain;

And gave him gold, and taught the way
To fly. She thought upon the night,
When, like an angel of the light,
She stood before the prisoner's sight,
And led him to the cypress grove,
And showed the bark and hidden cove;
And bade the wandering captive flee,
In words he knew from infancy !
And then she thought how for her love

He had braved slavery and death,
That he might only breathe the air

Made sweet and sacred by her breath. She reached the grove of cypresses,

Another step is by the side : Another moment, and the bark'

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!
And never could their mirror be
A calmer or a lovelier sea!
For every wave was a diamond gleam :
And that light vessel well might seem
A fairy ship, and that graceful pair
Young Genii, whose home was of light and air !

Another evening came, but dark;
The storm clouds hovered round the bark
Of misery :-they just could see
The distant shore of Italy,
As the dim moon through vapours shonem,
A few short rays, her light was gone.
O’er head a sullen scream was heard,
As sought the land the white sea-bird,
Her pale wings like a meteor streaming.
Upon the waves a light is gleaming--

Ill-omened brightness, sent by Death
To light the night-black depths beneath.
The vessel rolled amid the surge ;
The winds howled round it, like a dirge
Sung by some savage race.

Then came
The rush of thunder and of flame :
It showed two forms upon the deck,
One clasped around the other's neck,
As there she could not dream of fear-
In her lover's arms could danger be near ?
He stood and watched her with the eye
Of fixed and silent agony.
The waves swept on : he felt her heart

Beat close and closer yet to his ! They burst upon the ship !- the sea

Has closed upon their dream of bliss !

Surely their's is a pleasant sleep,

Beneath that ancient cedar tree, Whose solitary stem has stood

For years alone beside the sea ! The last of a most noble race, That once had there their dwelling-place, Long past away! Beneath its shade, A soft green couch the turf had made :And glad the morning sun is shining On those beneath the boughs reclining. Nearer the fisher drew. He saw

The dark hair of the Moorish maid, Like a veil, floating o'er the breast,

Where tenderly her head was laid ;And yet her lover's arm was placed Clasping around the graceful waist ! But then he marked the youth's black curls

Were dripping wet with foam and blood; And that the maiden's tresses dark

Were heavy with the briny flood !
Woe for the wind !-woe for the wave!
They sleep the slumber of the grave!
They buried them beneath that tree;

It long had been a sacred spot.
Soon it was planted round with flowers

By many who had not forgot ;

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, That she who perished in the sea Might thus be kept in memory. From many a lip came sounds of praise,

Like music from sweet voices ringing ; For many a boat had gathered round,

To list the song I had been singing.' There are some moments in our fate

That stamp the colour of our days ;

As, till then, life had not been felt,

And mine was sealed in the slight gaze
Which fixed my eye, and fired my brain,
And bowed my heart beneath the chain.
'Twas a dark and flashing eye,
Shadows, too, that tenderly,
With almost female softness, came
O'er its mingled gloom and flame.
His cheek was pale; or toil, or care,
Or midnight study, had been there,
Making its young colours dull,
Yet leaving it most beautiful.
Raven curls their shadows threw,
Like the twilight's darkening hue,
O’er the pure and mountain snow
Of his high and haughty brow ;
Lighted by a smile, whose spell
Words are powerless to tell.
Such a lip!-oh, poured from thence
Lava floods of eloquence
Would come with fiery energy,
Like those words that cannot die.
Words the Grecian warrior spoke
When the Persian's chain he broke;
Or that low and honey tone,
Making woman's heart his own;
Such as should be heard at night,
In the dim and sweet starlight;
Sounds that haunt a beauty's sleep,
Treasures for her heart to keep.
Like the pine of summer tall ;
Apollo, on his pedestal
In our own gallery, never bent
More graceful, more magnificent;
Ne'er look'd the hero, or the king,

More nobly than the youth who now,
As if soul-centred in my song,

Was leaning on a galley's prow.
He spoke not when the others spoke,

His heart was all too full for praise ;
But his dark eyes kept fixed on mine,

Which sank beneath their burning gaze.
Mine sank—but yet I felt the thrill
Of that look burning on me still.
I heard no word that others said-

Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh.
My hand kept wandering on my lute,

In music, but unconsciously :
My pulses throbbed, my heart beat high,
A flush of dizzy ecstacy

Crimsoned my cheek; I felt warm tears
Dimming my sight, yet was it sweet,
My wild heart's most bewildering beat,

Conciousness, without hopes or fears,
Of a new power within me waking,

Like light before the morn's full breaking. 50 ATHENEUM VOL. 2. 2d series.

I left the boat the crowd: my mood

my soul pant for solitude.
Amid my palace halls was one,
The most peculiarly my own:
The roof was blue and fretted gold,
The floor was of the Parian stone,
Shining like snow, as only meet
For the light tread of fairy feet;
And in the midst, beneath a shade
Of clustered rose, a fountain played,
Sprinkling its scented waters round,
With a sweet and lulling sound, -
O'er oranges, like Eastern gold,
Half hidden by the dark green

Of their large leaves ;-o'er hyacinth bells,
Where every summer odour dwells.
And, nestled in the midst, a pair
Of white wood-doves, whose home was there :
And, like an echo to their song,
At times a murmur past along ;
A dying tone, a plaining fall,
So sad, so wild, so musical-
As the wind swept across the wire,
And waked my lone Æolian lyre,
Which lay upon the casement, where
The lattice wooed the cold night air,
Half hidden by a bridal twine
Of jasmine with the emerald vine.
And ever as the curtains made
A varying light, a changeful shade,
As the breeze waved them to and fro,
Came on the eye the glorious show
Of pictured walls, where landscape wild
Of wood, and stream, and mountain piled,
Or sunny vale, or twilight grove,
Or shapes whose every look was love;
Saints, whose diviner glance seemed caught
From Heaven,-some, whose earthlier thought
Was yet more lovely,--shone like gleams
Of Beauty's spirit seen in dreams.
I threw me on a couch to rest,

Loosely I flung my long black hair;
It seemed to soothe my troubled breast

To drink the quiet evening air.
I looked upon the deep-blue sky,
And it was all hope and harmony.
Afar I could see the Arno's stream
Glorying in the clear moonbeam;
And the shadowy city met my gaze,
Like the dim memory of other days;
And the distant wood’s black coronal
Was like oblivion, that covereth all.
I know not why my soul felt sad;

I touched my lute,- it would not waken,
Save to old songs of sorrowing-

Of hope betrayed--of hearts forsaken:

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IT 'T is evident, from the many instan- flourished several hundred years ago,

ces that have presented themselves and who wrote an elaborate treatise on to the world of feminine excellence, hunting, hawking, and fishing, which that the female mind is capable of pro- may be found in the libraries of bibliofiting as much by cultivation and study maniacs. Also Lettice Bigby, Baroas that of the other sex. We have had ness Offaley, who, during the tumults poetesses, philosophers, scholars, poli- in Ireland in 1642, most valiantly deticians, and moral writers, whose names fended her casile at Geashill against will be handed down to future genera all assailants. tions, who will rejoice in the truths It would be difficult to mention the diffused by their pens.

sphere of life where females have not From the mixed society that a determined to be celebrated that they young man is thrown into at his en have been so the varied works of trance into life, it is probable by the Madame de Stael, and the epistles of time he commences author he may not Madame de Sevigné, may be cited as be fully convinced that something instances almost worthy of being termmore is expected of those who can pro- ed wonderful of female talent. The duce anything worth the perusal, great powers of reasoning of the forthan that they should merely amuse. mer, and the wit and discernment of It is directly the reverse with the fe- every intrigue that was carrying on male; they are early taught, that to be in the magnificent but dissolute court esteemed they must be useful, and the of Louis XIV. which is displayed in same argument each wisely applies to the letters of the latter, may be cited her own heart. While the man is de- as illustrative of this remark. That lighting in those displays which should they should excel as poetesses and novhave been the objects of regular culti- elists is not very wonderful; there is vation, the female is wisely laying up an imaginativeness and innate delicacy those stores of knowledge which is to in the female mind admirably adapted make her useful “ in her day and gen- to the composition of works of fiction ; eration.” We think no one will deem yet to what noble purposes have not this chimerical. Who can take up any some of this hitherto despised class of of Miss · Hamilton's works, and say literature been rendered subservient to they are not the result of great study? women.

The works of that great or who can peruse the varied effusions moralist Edgeworth, and the beautiful of Miss More, and not perceive, in and religious novels of the late Mrs. every line, the manifestations of a per- Brunton, are eminent examples of the severing intellect.

justice of this conclusion. It is not There have been several instances irrelevant here to state, that we do not on record of females who have arrived conceive it difficult to assign satisfying at great proficiency in the dead lan- reasons for the contempt so lavishly guages, of which Mrs. Carter, Miss bestowed on this genius of composiEliza Śmith, and the celebrated French tion. Formerly every miserable wight, critic Madame Dacier, are extraordi- who could string a few sentences tonary examples; and now and then gether, wrote novels, and we had prothat sportive goddess, Nature, by way ductions in comparison with which the of showing the “lords of the creation” “ renowned History of Daddy Two what she could do, has created one or Shoes, on Three Legs," might fairly two spirits somewhat amazonian. Of be termed sublime and beautiful; but this small and select class was a lady this day has fled for ever, and amiable of the name of Juliana Barnes, who suicides, and love-sick robbers can de

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