And oh when lovers talk'd alone,

If 'mid their bliss the Lyre was near, It made their murmurs all its own,

And echoed notes that Heaven might hear!

There was a nymph, who long had loved,
But dared not tell the world how well;
The shades, where she at evening roved,
Alone could know, alone could tell.

'Twas there, at twilight time, she stole
So oft, to make the dear-one bless'd,
Whom love had given her virgin soul,
And nature soon gave all the rest!

It chanced that in the fairy bower

Where they had found their sweetest shed, This Lyre, of strange and magic power, Hung gently whispering o'er their head.

And while, with eyes of mingling fire,
They listen'd to each other's vow,
The youth full oft would make the Lyre
A pillow for his angel's brow!

And while the melting words she breathed
On all its echoes wanton'd round,
Her hair, amid the strings enwreathed,
Through golden mazes charm'd the sound!

Alas! their hearts but little thought,
While thus entranced they listening lay,
That every sound the Lyre was taught
Should linger long, and long betray!

So mingled with its tuneful soul

Were all their tender murmurs grown, That other sighs unanswer'd stole,

Nor changed the sweet, the treasured tone.

Unhappy nymph! thy name was sung

To every passing lip that sigh'd; The secrets of thy gentle tongue On every ear in murmurs died!

The fatal Lyre, by Envy's hand

Hung high amid the breezy groves, To every wanton gale that fann'd

Betray'd the mystery of your loves!

Yet, oh!-not many a suffering hour,

Thy cup of shame on earth was given; Benignly came some pitying Power,

And took the Lyre and thee to Heaven! .

There, as thy lover dries the tear

Yet warm from life's malignant wrongs,
Within his arms, thou lovest to hear
The luckless Lyre's remember'd songs!

Still do your happy souls attune

The notes it learn'd, on earth, to move; Still breathing o'er the chords, commune In sympathies of angel love!

TO THE FLYING-FISH.*

WHEN I have seen thy snowy wing
O'er the blue wave at evening spring,

* It is the opinion of St. Austin, upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful circumstance which can tend to prove a kindred similitude between them; vyγενειαν τοις πετομένοις προς τα νηκτα. With this thought in our minds when we first see the Flying-Fish, we could almost fancy that we are present at the moment of creation, and witness the birth of the first bird from the waves.

And give those scales, of silver white,
So gaily to the eye of light,

As if thy frame were form'd to rise,
And live amid the glorious skies;
Oh! it has made me proudly feel,
How like thy wing's impatient zeal
Is the pure soul, that scorns to rest
Upon the world's ignoble breast,

But takes the plume that God has given,
And rises into light and Heaven!

But, when I see that wing, so bright,
Grow languid with a moment's flight,
Attempt the paths of air in vain,
And sink into the waves again :
Alas! the flattering pride is o'er ;
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar,
But erring man must blush to think,
Like thee, again, the soul may sink !

Oh Virtue! when thy clime I seek,
Let not my spirit's flight be weak :
Let me not, like this feeble thing,
With brine still dropping from its wing,

Just sparkle in the solar glow

And plunge again to depths below;

But, when I leave the grosser throng

With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,
Let me, in that aspiring day,

Cast every lingering stain away,
And, panting for thy purer air,

Fly up at once and fix me there!

VOL. II.

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