WE met in secret :-mystery is to love
Like perfume to the flower; the maiden's blush
Looks loveliest when her cheek is pale with fear.
By moonlight still I sought my lady's bower,
And there, 'mid blossoms fragrant as her sigh,
I met the beauty that my soul adored,
And listened for the light feet, which like wind
Passed o'er the dewy turf. Oh never can
That dear step be forgotten.-It is still
Familiar as a sound of yesterday.-
Our shrine of meeting was a cypress, which
Hung o'er the rose, like Sorrow shading Love ;-
This was the temple where we called the Night
To witness gentle vows; and when each lip
Paused in the fulness of impassioned thoughts;-
Hearkened those moonlight melodies, which came
So soothingly upon that silent time;
The light cascade, descending, shedding round
Its silver drops upon the orange blooms,
That leant to kiss their own fair images,
Each sparkling wave a mirror, and sighed forth
Their soul of odour as they caught the dew;
The melancholy music of that bird
Who sings but to the stars, and tells her tale
Of love, when, bosomed by the snowy clouds,
The Queen of Beauty lights her radiant lamp,
Her own soft planet. And at times there came
Like a low echo, a faint murmur, when
A gale just laden with the rose's sigh,
Swept the Eolian lyre, and wakened sounds
Of such wild sweetness that it almost seemed
The breath of flowers made audible.—They told,
In long departed days, when every grove
Was filled with beautiful imaginings
And visioned creations, that a Nymph
Once pined with unrequited love and sighed
Away her sad existence. I could think
She left her last tone softly giving soul
To the sad of that lonely lyre;
Or else, perchance, the spirit of some Bard,
Whose life in life was music, wandered o'er
The chords, which once with him held sympathy,
Like him neglected, but sweet breathing still.
Why dwell I on these memories? Alas,
The heart loves lingering o'er the shadows left
By joys departed!-'Twas one summer night,
And our brief hour had passed; I know not why,
But my soul felt disquieted within me,
And the next evening, when I sought the grove,
I had a strange foreboding sadness-none
Were there to welcome me, no silvery trace
Of fairy footsteps was upon the grass.
I waited long and anxiously :-none came.—
I wandered on; it was not in the hope
To meet my ROSALIE; but it was sweet
To look upon the stars, and think that they
Had witnessed our love. At once a sound
Of music slowly rose, a sad low chant
Of maiden voices, and a faint light streamed
From out the windows of a chapel near;
I knew it well-'twas the shrine sacred to
Her patron saint, and ROSALIE had said,
If ever I might claim her as my bride
Before the face of heaven, that altar should
Be where our vows were given. I entered in,
And heard a sound of weeping, and saw shapes
Bent down in anguish ; in the midst, a bier
Was covered o'er with flowers,-sad offerings made
The dead, in vain-and one lay sleeping there,
Whose face was veiled.-I could not speak nor ask ;—
My heart was wild with fear,-I lifted up
The long white veil,-I looked on the pale cheek
Of my so worshipped ROSALIE!
AND is our country's father fled,
His car of fire can none recall?
Be-here-his sacred spirit shed,
Here-may his prophet mantle fall.
Fain would I fill the vacant breach,
Stand where he stood the plague to stay;
In his prophetic spirit preach,
And in his hallowed accents pray.
It is not that on seraph's wing,
I hope to soar where he has soared ;—
This is the only claim I bring,
I love his church, I love his Lord.
I love the altar of my sires,
Firm as my country's rocks of steel;
And as I feed its sacred fires,
The present deity I feel.
I love to know that, not alone,
I meet the battle's angry tide;
That sainted myriads from the throne
Descend and combat by my side.
Mine is no solitary choice,-
See, here, the seal of saints impressed!
The prayers of millions swell my voice;
The mind of ages fills my breast.
I love the ivy-mantled tower,
Rocked by the storms of thousand years; The Grave, whose melancholy flower
Was nourished by a martyr's tears, The sacred Yew, so feared in war, Which, like the sword to David given, Inflicted not a human scar,
But lent to man the arms of heaven.
I love the organ's joyous swell,—
Sweet echo of the joyous ode !
I love the cheerful village bell,-
Faint emblem of the call of God.
Waked by the sound, I bend my feet,
I bid my swelling sorrows cease;
I do but touch the mercy seat,
And hear the still small voice of peace.
And as the ray of evening fades,
I love amidst the dead to stand,
Where in the chancel's deepening shades,
I seem to meet the ghostly band.
One comes;-Oh! mark his sparkling eye!
I knew his faith, his strong endeavour;
Another-Ah! I hear him sigh,
Alas! and is he gone for ever!
Another treads the shadowy aisle,
I know him-'tis my sainted sire;-
I know his patient angel smile,
His shepherd voice, his eye of fire !—
His ashes rest in yonder urn;—
I saw his death;-I closed his eye;-
Bright sparks amidst those ashes burn,
That death has taught me how to die.
Long be our Father's temple ours,-
Woe to the hand by which it falls;
A thousand spirits watch its towers,
A cloud of angels guard its walls.
And be their shield by us possessed!
Lord, rear around thy blest abode,
The buttress of a holy breast,
The rampart of a present God!
Manchester Exchange Herald.
TO THE EGYPTIAN MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.
AND thou hast walked about--how strange a story!—
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago!
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And Time had not begun to overthrow
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous!
Speak, for thou long enough hast acted Dummy!
Thou hast a tongue-come-let us hear its tune!
Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above-ground, Mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the Moon;
Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,
But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs and features.
-for doubtless thou canst recollect,
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops, or Cephrenés architect
Of either Pyramid that bears his name?
Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?
Had Thebes a hundred gates as sung by Homer ?
Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden,
By oath, to tell the mysteries of thy trade,—
Then say, what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played?
Perhaps thou wert a Priest—if so, my struggles
Are vain,-for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharoah, glass to glass;
Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat;
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass:
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