θεζόμενον.

PLUTARCH. περί του μη χραν εμμετρ See also his treatise de Isid, et Osir. Observing that the lotos showed its head above water at sun-rise, and sank again at his setting, they conceived the idea of consecrating it to Osiris, or the sun.

This symbol of a youth sitting upon a lotos, is very frequent on the Abraxases, or Basilidian stones.-See MONTFAUCON, tom. ii, planche 158, and the Supplément, etc. tom. ii, lib. vii, chap. 5.

The ancients esteemed those flowers and trees the sweetest upon which the rainbow had appeared to rest and the wood they chiefly burned in sacrifices, was that which the smile of Iris had consecrated. -PLUTARCH. Sympos. lib. iv, cap. 2, where (as Vossius remark>) καίουσι, instead of καλούσι, is undoubtedly the genuine reading, -See Vossius for some curious particularities of the rainbow, De Ori gin. et Progress. Idololat. lib. iii, cap. 13.

I took the harp, and would have sung
As if 't were not of her I sang;
But still the notes on LAMIA hung-
On whom but LAMIA could they hang?

That kiss for which, if worlds were mine, A world for every kiss I'd give her; Those floating eyes, that floating shine Like diamonds in an eastern river!

That mould, so fine, so pearly bright,

Of which luxurious Heaven hath cast her, Through which her soul doth beam as white As flame through lamps of alabaster'

Of these I sang, and notes and words Were sweet as if 't was LAMIA's hair That lay upon my lute for chords,

And LAMIA's lip that warbled there!

But when, alas! I turn'd the theme,
And when of vows and oaths I spoke,
Of truth and hope's beguiling dream—
The chord beneath my finger broke!

False harp! false woman!-such, oh! such Are lutes too frail and maids too willing; Every hand's licentious touch

Can learn to wake their wildest thrilling!

And when that thrill is most awake,

And when you think Heaven's joys await you, The nymph will change, the chord will breakOh Love, oh Music! how I hate you!

TO MRS

ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER.

Is not thy mind a gentle mind?

Is not thy heart a heart refined?

Hast thou not every blameless grace,

That man should love or Heaven can trace?

And oh! art thou a shrine for Sin

To hold her hateful worship in?

No, no, be happy-dry that tear

Though some thy heart hath harbour'd near
May now repay its love with blame;
Though man, who ought to shield thy fame,
Ungenerous man, be first to wound thee;
Though the whole world may freeze around thee,
Oh! thou 'It be like that lucid tear1

Which, bright, within the crystal's sphere

In liquid purity was found,

Though all had grown congeal'd around;
Floating in frost, it mock'd the chill,
Was

pure, was soft, was brilliant still!

This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has left us some pointless epigrams. It was a drop of pure water inclosed within a piece of crystal.-See CLAUDIAN. Epigram. de Chrystallo cui aqua inerat. ADDISON mentions a curiosity of this kind at Milan; he also says, It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Vendôme in France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it in a little crystal vial and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen. -ADDISON'S Remarks on several Parts of Italy.

RINGS AND SEALS.

HYMN OF A VIRGIN OF DELPHI,

AT THE TOMB OF HER MOTHER.

On! lost, for ever lost!-no more
Shall Vesper light our dewy way
Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,

To hymn the fading fires of day!
No more to Tempé's distant vale

In holy musings shall we roam, Through summer's glow and winter's gale, To bear the mystic chaplets home!1 'T was then my soul's expanding zeal, By Nature warm'd and led by thee, In every breeze was taught to feel

The breathings of a deity!

Guide of my heart! to memory true,

Thy looks, thy words, are still my ownI see thee raising from the dew

Some laurel, by the wind o'erthrown,
And hear thee say,This humble bough
Was planted for a doom divine,
And, though it weep in languor now,

Shall flourish on the Delphic shrine!
Thus in the vale of earthly sense,

Though sunk awhile the spirit lies, A viewless hand shall cull it thence, To bloom immortal in the skies!

Thy words had such a melting flow,

And spoke of truth so sweetly well, They dropp'd like heaven's serenest snow, And all was brightness where they fell. Fond soother of my infant tear!

Fond sharer of my infant joy!
Is not thy shade still lingering here?
Am I not still thy soul's employ?
And oh! as oft at close of day,

When meeting on the sacred mount,
Our nymphs awaked the choral lay,
And danced around Cassotis' fount;
As then, 't was all thy wish and care
That mine should be the simplest mien,
My lyre and voice the sweetest there,

My foot the lightest o'er the green; So still, each little grace to mould, Around form thine eyes are shed, my Arranging every snowy fold,

And guiding every mazy tread! And, when I lead the hymning choir, Thy spirit still, unseen and free, Hovers between my lip and lyre,

And weds them into harmony! Flow, Plistus, flow! thy murmuring wave

Shall never drop its silvery tear

Upon so pure, so blest a grave,
To memory so divinely dear!

The laurel, for the common uses of the temple, for adorning the altars and sweeping the pavement, was supplied by a tree near the fountain of Castalia: but upon all important occasions, they sent to Tempe for their laurel. We find in PAUSANIAS, that this valley supplied the branches of which the temple was originally constructed; and PLUTARCH says, in his Dialogue on Music, The youth who brings the Tempic laurel toDelphi is always attended by a player on the flute.

Αλλα μην και τῳ κατακομίζοντι παιδί την Τεμπικήν | δαφνήν εις Δελφους παρομαρτει αυλητής.

Ώσπερ σφραγίδες τα φιλήματα. ACHILLES TATIUS, lib. ii.

Go! said the angry, weeping maid,

. The charm is broken!-once betray'd, Oh! never can my heart rely

On word or look, on oath or sigh.
Take back the gifts, so sweetly given,
With promised faith and vows to Heaven;
That little ring which, night and morn,
With wedded truth my hand hath worn;
That seal which oft, in moments blest,
Thou hast upon my lip imprest,
And sworn its dewy spring should be
A fountain seal'd' for only thee!
Take, take them back, the gift and vow,
All sullied, lost, and hateful now!»

But this was all a dream of sleep,
And I have said, when morning shone,
Oh! why should fairy Fancy keep
These wonders for herself alone?.

I knew not then that Fate had lent
Such tones to one of mortal birth;
I knew not then that Heaven had sent
A voice, a form, like thine on earth!

And yet, in all that flowery maze

Through which my life has loved to tread, When I have heard the sweetest lays

From lips of dearest lustre shed;

When I have felt the warbled word

From Beauty's mouth of perfume sighing, Sweet as music's hallow'd bird

Upon a rose's bosom lying!

Though form and song at once combined

Their loveliest bloom and softest thrill, My heart hath sigh'd, my heart hath pined For something softer, lovelier still!

Oh! I have found it all, at last,

In thee, thou sweetest living lyre, Through which the soul hath ever pass'd Its harmonizing breath of fire!

All that my best and wildest dream, In Fancy's hour, could hear or see Of Music's sigh or Beauty's beam, Are realized, at once, in thee!

Oh! I have thought, and thinking sigh'd-
How like to thee, thou restless tide!
May be the lot, the life of him,
Who roams along thy water's brim!
Through what alternate shades of woe
And flowers of joy my path may go!
How many an humble, still retreat
May rise to court my weary feet,
While still pursuing, still unblest,
I wander on, nor dare to rest!
But, urgent as the doom that calls
Thy water to its destined falls,
I see the world's bewildering force
Hurry my heart's devoted course
From lapse to lapse, till life be done,
And the lost current cease to run!
Oh! may my falls be bright as thine!
May Heaven's forgiving rainbow shine
Upon the mist that circles me,
As soft as now it hangs o'er thee!

CLORIS AND FANNY.

CLORIS! if I were Persia's king,
I'd make my graceful queen of thee;
While Fanny, wild and artless thing,
Should but thy humble handmaid be.
There is but one objection in it-
That, verily, I'm much afraid

I should, in some unlucky minute,
Forsake the mistress for the maid!

There is a dreary and savage character in the country immediately above these falls, which is much more in harmony with the wildness of such a scene, than the cultivated lands in the neighbourhood of Niagara. See the drawing of them in Mr WELD's book. According to him, the perpendicular beight of the Cobos Fall is fifty feet; but the Marquis de Chastellux makes it seventy-six.

The fine rainbow, which is continually forming and dissolving as the spray rises into the light of the sun, is perhaps the most interesting beauty which these wonderful cataracts exhibit.

TO MISS

WITH Woman's form and woman's tricks
So much of man you seem to mix,

One knows not where to take you :
I pray you, if 't is not too far,
Go, ask of Nature which you are,
Or what she meant to make you.

Yet stay--you need not take the painsWith neither beauty, youth, nor brains,

For man or maid's desiring;
Pert as female, fool as male,

As boy too green, as girl too stale-
The thing 's not worth inquiring!

ΤΟ

ON HER ASKING ME TO ADDRESS A POEM TO HER.

Sine Venere friget Apollo.

AGID. MENAGIUS.

How can I sing of fragrant sighs

I ne'er have felt from thee?

How can I sing of smiling eyes

That ne'er have smiled on me?

The heart, 't is true, may fancy much, But, oh! 'tis cold and seemingOne moment's real, rapturous touch Is worth an age of dreaming!

Dear shall be the day we met,

Oh! you

that Love's celestial dream In all its purity would know,

Let not the senses' ardent beam

Too strongly through the vision glow!

Love sweetest lies conceal'd in night,

The night where Heaven has bid him lie; Oh! shed not there unhallow'd light,

Or, Psyche knows the boy will fly!

Dear Psyche! many a charmed hour, Through many a wild and magic waste, To the fair fount and blissful bower

Thy mazy foot my soul hath traced!

Where'er thy joys are number'd now,
Beneath whatever shades of rest,
The Genius of the starry brow3

Has chain'd thee to thy Cupid's breast;

See the story in APULEIUS. With respect to this beautiful allegory of Love and Psyche, there is an ingenious idea suggested by the senator BUONAROTTI, in his Osservazioni sopra alcuni frammenti di vasi antichi. He thinks the fable is taken from some very occult mysteries, which had long been celebrated in honour of Love; and he accounts, upon this supposition, for the silence of the more ancient authors upon the subject, as it was not till towards the decline of Pagan superstition that writers could venture to reveal or discuss such ceremonies; accordingly, he observes, we find Lucian and Plutarch treating, without reserve, of the Dea Syria, and Isis and Osiris; and APULEIUS, who has given us the story of Cupid and Psyche, has also detailed some of the mysteries of Isis.-See the Giornale di Litterati d'Italia, tome xxvii, articol. 1. See also the Observations upon the ancient gems in the Museum Florentinum, vol. i, p. 156.

I cannot avoid remarking here an error into which the French Encyclopédistes have been led by M. Spon, in their article Psyché.They say, Petron fait un récit de la pompe nuptiale de ces deux amans (Amour et Psyché). Déjà, dit-il, etc. etc. The Psyche of PETRONICS, however, is a servant-maid, and the marriage which he describes is that of the young Pannychis. See SPON's Recherches Curieuses, etc. dissertat. 5.

Allusions to Mrs T-GHE's poem.

3 Constancy.

And dear shall be the night we parted!

Oh! if regrets, however sweet,

Must with the lapse of time decay, Yet still, when thus in mirth you meet, Fill high to him that's far away!

Long be the flame of memory found
Alive within your social glass;
Let that be still the magic round
O'er which oblivion dares not pass!

EPISTLE VIII.

TO THE HONOURABLE W. R. SPENCER.

Nec venit ad duros musa vocata Getas.
OVID. ex Ponto, lib. i, ep. 5.

FROM BUFFALO, UPON LAKE ERIE.

shade!

THοu oft hast told me of the fairy hours
Thy heart has number'd, in those classic bowers
Where fancy sees the ghost of ancient wit
'Mid cowls and cardinals profanely flit,
And pagan spirits, by the Pope unlaid,
Haunt every stream and sing through every
There still the bard, who (if his numbers be
His tongue's light echo) must have talk'd like thee,
The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught
Those playful, sunshine holidays of thought,
In which the basking soul reclines and glows,
Warm without toil and brilliant in repose.
There still he roves, and laughing loves to see
How modern monks with ancient rakes agree;
How mitres hang where ivy wreaths might twine,
And heathen Massic 's damn'd for stronger wine!
There too are all those wandering souls of song
With whom thy spirit hath communed so long,
Whose rarest gems are every instant hung
By memory's magic on thy sparkling tongue.
But here, alas! by Erie's stormy lake,
As far from thee my lonely course I take,
No bright remembrance o'er the fancy plays,
No classic dream, no star of other days
Has left that visionary glory here,
That relic of its light, so soft, so dear,
Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene,
The humblest shed, where genius once has been!

All that creation's varying mass assumes
Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms;
Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow,
Bright lakes expand, and conquering' rivers flow;
Mind, mind alone, without whose quickening ray,
The world's a wilderness, and man but clay,

This epithet was suggested by CHARLEVOIX's striking description of the confluence of the Missouri with the Mississippi :- I believe this is the finest confluence in the world. The two rivers are much of the same breadth, each about half a league; but the Missouri is by far the most rapid, and seems to enter the Mississippi like a conqueror, through which it carries its white waves to the opposite shore without mixing them: afterwards it gives its colour to the Missis

-Letter xxvih