Soon Rupert, 'twixt his bride and him, In agony of wild despair, A death-cold carcase found; He saw it not, but thought he felt Its arms embrace him round. He started up, and then return'd, But found the phantom still; In vain he shrunk, it clipp'd him round, With damp and deadly chill! And when he bent, the earthy lips A kiss of horror gave; 'Twas like the smell from charnel vaults, Or from the mouldering grave! Ill-fated Rupert, wild and loud Thou criedst to thy wife, «Oh! save me from this horrid fiend, My Isabel! my life!» But Isabel had nothing seen, She look'd around in vain; And much she mourn'd the mad conceit That rack'd her Rupert's brain. At length from this invisible These words to Rupert came; (Oh God! while he did hear the words, What terrors shook his frame!) « Husband! husband! I've the ring And all the night the demon lay Cold-chilling by his side, And strain'd him with such deadly grasp, But when the dawn of day was near, And left the affrighted youth to weep All, all that day a gloomy cloud Was seen on Rupert's brows; Fair Isabel was likewise sad, But strove to cheer her spouse. And, as the day advanced, he thought At length the second night arrived, « Husband! husband! I've the ring, He started from the bed; And thus to his bewilder'd wife «Oh Isabel! dost thou not see A shape of horrors here, And keeps me from my dear?»> «No, no, my love! my Rupert, I This night, just like the night before, Nor did the demon vanish thence Says Rupert then, « My Isabel, Now Austin was a reverend man, To Father Austin's holy cave Then Rupert went full straight, And told him all, and ask'd him how To remedy his fate. The father heard the youth, and then And, having pray'd for half an hour, «There is a place where four roads meet, Which I will tell to thee; Be there this eve, at fall of night, Thou 'lt see a group of figures pass In strange disorder'd crowd, And one that's high above the rest, Terrific towering o'er, Will make thee know him at a glance, To him from me these tablets give, Thou need'st not fear, but give them straight, The night-fall came, and Rupert all To where the cross-roads met, and he And lo! a group of figures came Then, oh my friends, this hour improve, Be thus with joy remember'd ever! Which could disturb our soul's communion! Abandon'd thus to dear delight, We'll c'en for once forget the Union! On that let statesmen try their powers, And tremble o'er the rights they 'd die for; The union of the soul be ours, And every union else we sigh for! Then, oh my friends, this hour improve, And may the birth of her we love In every eye around I mark The feelings of the heart o'erflowing, From every soul I catch the spark Of sympathy in friendship glowing! Oh! could such moments ever fly; Oh! that we ne'er were doom'd to lose 'em; And all as bright as Charlotte's eye, Aud all as pure as Charlotte's bosom. But oh! my friends, this hour improve, Let's feel as if we ne'er could sever; And may the birth of her we love Be thus with joy remember'd ever! For me, whate'er my span of years, Or live, as now, for mirth and loving! This day shall come with aspect kind, And drink a health to bliss that's over! Then, oh! my friends, this hour improve, TO A BOY WITH A WATCH. Is it not sweet, beloved youth, To rove through erudition's bowers, And cull the golden fruits of truth, And gather fancy's brilliant flowers? And is it not more sweet than this To feel thy parents' hearts approving, It must be so to thee, my youth; And makes the flowers of fancy brighter! Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue, Where are the arts by which that glory grew? The genuine virtues that with eagle-gaze Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze? Where is the heart by chymic truth refined, The exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind? Where are the links that twined with heavenly art, His country's interest round the patriot's heart? Where is the tongue that scatter'd words of fire? The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre? Do these descend with all that tide of fame Which vainly waters an unfruitful name? SONG. WHY does azure deck the sky? 'T is to be like thy looks of blue; Why is red the rose's dye? Because it is thy blushes' hue. All that 's fair, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee! Why is falling snow so white, But to be like thy bosom fair? Why are solar beams so bright? That they may seem thy golden hair! All that's bright, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee! Why are Nature's beauties felt? Oh! 't is thine in her we see! Why has music power to melt? Oh! because it speaks like thee. All that 's sweet, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee! MORALITY. A FAMILIAR EPISTLE. ADDRESSED TO J. AT-NS-N, ESQ. M. R. I. A. THOUGH long at school and college, dozing I only learn'd to doubt at last. I find the doctors and the sages Have differ'd in all climes and ages, 1 The gentleman to whom this poem is addressed is the author of some esteemed works, and was Mr Little's most particular friend. I have heard Mr Little very frequently speak of him as one in whom the elements were so mixed, that neither in his head nor heart had nature left any deficiency.-E. And two in fifty scarce agree 'Tis like the rainbow's shifting zone, And every vision makes its own. The doctors of the Porch advise, « Reason alone must claim direction, Such was the rigid Zeno's plan Such were the modes he taught mankind Now listen to the wily strains, When Pleasure, nymph with loosen'd zone, « Pleasure 's the only noble end To which all human powers should tend, Is this morality?—Oh, no! But thus it is, all sects, we see, While mystics dream, and doctors ponder, Seek virtue in a middle term; While thus they strive, in Heaven's defiance, 1 Arietippos Nor could he act a purer part, Though he had Tully all by heart; Oh! when I've seen the morning beam THE NATAL GENIUS. A DREAM. 10 -- -, THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH-DAY. IN witching slumbers of the night, I dream'd I was the airy sprite That on thy natal moment smiled; And thought I wafted on my wing Those flowers which in Elysium spring, To crown my lovely mortal child. With olive-branch I bound thy head, Which was to bloom through all thy years; And dew'd by sympathetic tears. Such was the wild but precious boon, Which Fancy, at her inagic noon, Bade me to Nona's image payOh! were 1, love, thus doom'd to he Thy little gu ardian deity, How blest around thy steps I'd play! Thy life should softly steal along, That's heard at distance in the grove; But all be sunshine, peace, and love! The wing of Time should never brush Thy dewy lip's luxuriant flush, To bid its roses withering die; Nor age itself, though dim and dark, Should ever quench a single spark That flashes from my Nona's eye! ! The Loves of the Angels. PREFACE. THIS Poem, somewhat different in form, and much more limited in extent, was originally designed as an episode for a work about which I have been, at intervals, employed during the last two years. Some months since, however, I found that my friend Lord Byron had, by an accidental coincidence, chosen the same subject for a drama; and as I could not but feel the disadvantage of coming after so formidable a rival, I thought it best to publish my humble sketch immediately, with such alterations and additions as I had time to make, and thus, by an earlier appearance in the literary horizon, give myself the chance of what astronomers call an Heliacal rising, before the luminary, in whose light I was to be lost, should appear. As objections may be made, by persons whose opinions I respect, to the selection of a subject of this nature from the Scripture, I think it right to remark that, in point of fact, the subject is not scriptural-the notion upon which it is founded (that of the love of angels for women) having originated in an erroneous translation by the LXX, of that verse in the sixth chapter of Genesis, upon which the sole authority for the fable rests. ' The foundation of my story, therefore, has as little to do with Holy Writ as have the dreams of the later Platonists, or the reveries of the Jewish divines; and, in appropriating the notion thus to the uses of poetry, I have done no more than establish it in that region of fiction, to which the opinions of the When, in the light of Nature's dawn Rejoicing, men and angels met "Twixt man and Heaven her curtain yet! Gazing upon this world below. Even then, that morning of the earth! Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth- One evening, in that time of bloom, Three noble youths conversing lay; To the far sky, where Day-light furl'd Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord, most rational Fathers, and of all other Christian theo-Of heaven they spoke, and, still more oft, logians, have long ago consigned it. In addition to the fitness of the subject for poetry, it struck me also as capable of affording an allegorical medium, through which might be shadowed out (as I have endeavoured to do in the following stories), the fall of the soul from its original purity—the loss of light and happiness which it suffers, in the pursuit of this world's perishable pleasures-and the punishments, both from conscience and divine justice, with which impurity, pride, and presumptuous inquiry into the awful secrets of God, are sure to be visited. The beautiful story of Cupid and Psyche owes its chief charm to this sort of «veiled meaning,» and it has been my wish (however I may have failed in the attempt) to communicate the same moral interest to the following pages. THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. T WAS when the world was in its prime, 1 See Note. Till, yielding gradual to the soft The silent breathing of the flowers- As on their first fond erring hours, Each told the story of his love, The First who spoke was one, with look A The least celestial of the three Spirit of light mould, that took The prints of earth most yieldingly; That circle out through endless space, Still fair and glorious, he but shone |