AT night, when all is still around, Of footstep, coming soft and light! And then, at night, how sweet to say With those we love exchang'd at night! TO LADY HOLLAND. ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OF A SNUFF-BOX. GIFT of the Hero, on his dying day, To her, whose pity watch'd, for ever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray, This relic lights up in her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy. Paris, July, 1821. 1 Sung in the character of a Frenchman. EPILOGUE. WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA. LAST night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, "what imp are And has the sprite been here? No-jests apartHowe'er man rules in science and in art, The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. And, if our Muse have sketch'd with pencil true The wife-the mother-firm, yet gentle too— Whose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun, Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one; Who loves - yet dares even Love himself disown, When Honour's broken shaft supports his throne. If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils, Dire as they are, of Critics and-Blue Devils. 1 In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright. For sometimes, in repose, she hid Would send their sunny glances out, Like heralds of delight, to bear Her heart's sweet messages about. THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS. FROM DANTE. Nell ora, credo, che dell' oriente Prima raggiò nel monte Citerea, Che di fuoco d' amor par sempre ardente, Ch' io mi son Lia, e vo movendo 'ntorno DANTE, Purg. canto xxvii. SOVEREIGN WOMAN. A BALLAD. THE dance was o'er, yet still in dreams That fairy scene went on; Like clouds still flush'd with daylight gleams, Though day itself is gone. And gracefully, to music's sound, The same bright nymphs went gliding round; While thou, the Queen of all, wert thereThe Fairest still, where all were fair. The dream then chang'd-in halls of state, But, lo, the scene now chang'd again— I saw thee o'er the battle-plain Nor reign such queens on thrones alone- For though she almost blush to reign, Though Love's own flow'rets wreath the chain, Disguise our bondage as we will, 'Tis woman, woman, rules us still. COME, PLAY ME THAT SIMPLE AIR AGAIN. A BALLAD. COME, play me that simple air again, I us'd so to love, in life's young day, And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then Were waken'd by that sweet lay. The tender gloom its strain Shed o'er the heart and brow, BY ONE WHO ADMIRES HIS CHARACTER AND TALENTS, AND IS PROUD OF HIS FRIENDSHIP. DURING a visit lately paid by me to the monastery of St. Macarius-which is situated, as you know, in the Valley of the Lakes of Natron - I was lucky enough to obtain possession of a curious Greek manuscript which, in the hope that you may be induced to translate it, I herewith transmit to you. Observing one of the monks very busily occupied in tearing up into a variety of fantastic shapes some papers which had the appearance of being the leaves of old books, I inquired of him the meaning of his task, and received the following explanation: The Arabs, it seems, who are as fond of pigeons as the ancient Egyptians, have a superstitious notion that, if they place in their pigeon-houses small scraps of paper, written over with learned characters, the birds are always sure to thrive the better for the charm; and the monks, who are never slow in profiting by superstition, have, at all times, a supply of such amulets for purchasers. In general, the fathers of the monastery have been in the habit of scribbling these fragments themselves; but a discovery lately made by them, saves all this trouble. Having dug up (as my informant stated) a chest of old manuscripts, which, being chiefly on the subject of alchemy, must have been buried in the time of Dioclesian, "we thought," added the monk, "that we could not employ such rubbish more properly, than in tearing it up, as you see, for the pigeon-houses of the Arabs." On my expressing a wish to rescue some part of these treasures from the fate to which his indolent fraternity had consigned them, he produced the manuscript which I have now the pleasure of sending you—the only one, he said, remaining entire-and I very readily paid the price which he demanded for it. You will find the story, I think, not altogether uninteresting; and the coincidence, in many respects, of the curious details in Chap. VI. with the description of the same ceremonies in the |