PART II.

                         HIGH on a mountain of enamell'd head--
                         Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
                         Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
                         Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
                         With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
                         What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven--
                         Of rosy head, that towering far away
                         Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
                         Of sunken suns at eve--at noon of night,
                         While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light--
                         Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
                         Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,
                         Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
                         Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
                         And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
                         *Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall

                         * Some star which, from the ruin'd roof
                         Of shak'd Olympus, by mischance, did fall.--Milton.

                         Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
                         Of their own dissolution, while they die--
                         Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
                         A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
                         Sat gently on these columns as a crown--
                         A window of one circular diamond, there,
                         Look'd out above into the purple air,

                         And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
                         And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
                         Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring,
                         Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
                         But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
                         The dimness of this world: that greyish green
                         That Nature loves the best for Beauty's grave
                         Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave--
                         And every sculptur'd cherub thereabout
                         That from his marble dwelling peeréd out,
                         Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche--
                         Achaian statues in a world so rich?
                         *Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis--
                         From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
                         **Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave
                         Is now upon thee--but too late to save!

        * Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, "Je connois bien l'admiration qu'inspirent ces ruines--mais un palais erigé au pied d'une chaine des rochers sterils--peut il être un chef d'oeuvre des arts!"

                         Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
                         Witness the murmur of the grey twilight

                         *That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
                         Of many a wild star-gazer long ago--
                         That stealeth ever on the ear of him
                         Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim.
                         And sees the darkness coming as a cloud--
                         **Is not its form--its voice--most palpable and loud?

        * Eyraco--Chaldea.

                         But what is this?--it cometh--and it brings
                         A music with it--'tis the rush of wings--
                         A pause--and then a sweeping, falling strain
                         And Nesace is in her halls again.
                         From the wild energy of wanton haste
                         Her checks were flushing, and her lips apart;
                         And zone that clung around her gentle waist
                         Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
                         Within the centre of that hall to breathe
                         She paus'd and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
                         The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
                         And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there!

                         ***Young flowers were whispering in melody
                         To happy flowers that night--and tree to tree;
                         Fountains were gushing music as they fell
                         In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
                         Yet silence came upon material things--
                         Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings--
                         And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
                         Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:

        *** Fairies use flowers for their charactery.--Merry Wives of Windsor.

                         "'Neath blue-bell or streamer--
                         Or tufted wild spray
                         That keeps, from the dreamer,
                         *The moonbeam away--

        * In Scripture is this passage--"The sun shall not harm thee by day, nor the moon by night." It is perhaps not generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed to its rays, to which circumstance the passage evidently alludes.

                         They are light on the tresses,
                         But lead on the heart.

                         Ligeia! Ligeia!
                         My beautiful one!
                         Whose harshest idea
                         Will to melody run,
                         O! is it thy will
                         On the breezes to toss?
                         Or, capriciously still,
                         *Like the lone Albatross,
                         Incumbent on night
                         (As she on the air)
                         To keep watch with delight
                         On the harmony there?

        * The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.

                         Ligeia! wherever
                         Thy image may be,
                         No magic shall sever
                         Thy music from thee.
                         Thou hast bound many eyes
                         In a dreamy sleep--
                         But the strains still arise
                         Which thy vigilance keep--
                         The sound of the rain
                         Which leaps down to the flower,
                         And dances again
                         In the rhythm of the shower--
                         **The murmur that springs

        ** I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to obtain and quote from memory:--"The verie essence and, as it were, springeheade and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe."

                         Are the music of things--
                         But are modell'd, alas!--
                         Away, then my dearest,
                         O! hie thee away
                         To springs that lie clearest
                         Beneath the moon-ray--
                         To lone lake that smiles,
                         In its dream of deep rest,
                         At the many star-isles
                         That enjewel its breast--
                         Where wild flowers, creeping,
                         Have mingled their shade,
                         On its margin is sleeping
                         Full many a maid--
                         Some have left the cool glade, and
                         * Have slept with the bee--

        * The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be moonlight.

        The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty lines before, has an appearance of affectation. It is, however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud Halcro--in whose mouth I admired its effect:

                         O! were there an island,
                         Tho' ever so wild
                         Where woman might smile, and
                         No man be beguil'd, &c.


                         Arouse them my maiden,
                         On moorland and lea--
                         Go! breathe on their slumber,
                         All softly in ear,
                         The musical number
                         They slumber'd to hear--
                         For what can awaken
                         An angel so soon

                         Whose sleep hath been taken
                         Beneath the cold moon,
                         As the spell which no slumber
                         Of witchery may test,
                         The rhythmical number
                         Which lull'd him to rest?"

                         Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
                         A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
                         Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight--
                         Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
                         That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar
                         O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
                         Sweet was that error--sweeter still that death--
                         Sweet was that error--ev'n with us the breath
                         Of Science dims the mirror of our joy--
                         To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy--
                         For what (to them) availeth it to know
                         That Truth is Falsehood--or that Bliss is Woe?
                         Sweet was their death--with them to die was rife
                         With the last ecstasy of satiate life--
                         Beyond that death no immortality--
                         But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"--
                         And there--oh! may my weary spirit dwell--
                         *Apart from Heaven's Eternity--and yet how far from Hell!

        * With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be characteristic of heavenly enjoyment.

                         Un no rompido sueno--
                         Un dia puro--allegre--libre
                         Quiera--
                         Libre de amor--de zelo--
                         De odio--de esperanza--de rezelo.--Luis Ponce de Leon.

        Sorrow is not excluded from "Al Aaraaf," but it is that sorrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, and which, in some minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures--the price of which, to those souls who make choice of "Al Aaraaf" as their residence after life, is final death and annihilation.

                         What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
                         Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
                         But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts
                         To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
                         A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover--
                         O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
                         Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
                         *Unguided Love hath fallen--'mid "tears of perfect moan."

                         * There be tears of perfect moan
                         Wept for thee in Helicon.--Milton.

                         He was a goodly spirit--he who fell:
                         A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well--
                         A gazer on the lights that shine above--
                         A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
                         What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
                         And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair--
                         And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
                         To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
                         The night had found (to him a night of wo)
                         Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo--
                         Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
                         And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
                         Here sate he with his love--his dark eye bent
                         With eagle gaze along the firmament:
                         Now turn'd it upon her--but ever then
                         It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.

                         "Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!
                         How lovely 'tis to look so far away!

                         She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve
                         I left her gorgeous halls--nor mourn'd to leave.
                         That eve--that eve--I should remember well--
                         The sun-ray dropp'd, in Lemnos, with a spell
                         On th' Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
                         Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall--
                         And on my eye-lids--O the heavy light!
                         How drowsily it weigh'd them into night!
                         On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
                         With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
                         But O that light!--I slumber'd--Death, the while,
                         Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
                         So softly that no single silken hair
                         Awoke that slept--or knew that he was there.

                         The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
                         *Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon--
                         More beauty clung around her column'd wall
                         **Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
                         And when old Time my wing did disenthral
                         Thence sprang I--as the eagle from his tower,
                         And years I left behind me in an hour.
                         What time upon her airy bounds I hung
                         One half the garden of her globe was flung
                         Unrolling as a chart unto my view--
                         Tenantless cities of the desert too!
                         Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
                         And half I wish'd to be again of men."

        * It was entire in 1687--the most elevated spot in Athens.

                         ** Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
                         Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.--Marlowe.

                         "My Angelo! and why of them to be?
                         A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee--

                         And greener fields than in you world above,
                         And woman's loveliness--and passionate love."

                         "But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
                         *Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,
                         Perhaps my brain grew dizzy--but the world
                         I left so late was into chaos hurl'd--
                         Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
                         And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
                         Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
                         And fell--not swiftly as I rose before,
                         But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
                         Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
                         Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
                         For nearest of all stars was thine to ours--
                         Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
                         A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.

                         * Pennon--for pinion.--Milton.

                         "We came--and to thy Earth--but not to us
                         Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
                         We came, my love; around, above, below,
                         Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
                         Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
                         She grants to us, as granted by her God--
                         But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl'd
                         Never his fairy wing o'er fairier world!
                         Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
                         Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
                         When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
                         Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea--
                         But when its glory swell'd upon the sky,
                         As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,

                         We paus'd before the heritage of men,
                         And thy star trembled--as doth Beauty then!"

                         Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
                         The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
                         They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
                         Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.

TAMERLANE.

                         KIND solace in a dying hour!
                         Such, father, is not (now) my theme--
                         I will not madly deem that power
                         Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
                         Unearthly pride hath revell'd in--
                         I have no time to dote or dream:
                         You call it hope--that fire of fire!
                         It is but agony of desire:
                         If I can hope--Oh God! I can--
                         Its fount is holier--more divine--
                         I would not call thee fool, old man,
                         But such is not a gift of thine.

                         Know thou the secret of a spirit
                         Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.
                         O yearning heart! I did inherit
                         Thy withering portion with the fame,
                         The searing glory which hath shone
                         Amid the Jewels of my throne,
                         Halo of Hell! and with a pain
                         Not Hell shall make me fear again--
                         O craving heart, for the lost flowers
                         And sunshine of my summer hours!
                         The undying voice of that dead time,
                         With its interminable chime,

                         Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
                         Upon thy emptiness--a knell.

                         I have not always been as now:
                         The fever'd diadem on my brow
                         I claim'd and won usurpingly--
                         Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
                         Rome to the Cæsar--this to me?
                         The heritage of a kingly mind,
                         And a proud spirit which hath striven
                         Triumphantly with human kind.

                         On mountain soil I first drew life:
                         The mists of the Taglay have shed
                         Nightly their dews upon my head,
                         And, I believe, the winged strife
                         And tumult of the headlong air
                         Have nestled in my very hair.

                         So late from Heaven--that dew--it fell
                         ('Mid dreams of an unholy night)
                         Upon me with the touch of Hell,
                         While the red flashing of the light
                         From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,
                         Appeared to my half-closing eye
                         The pageantry of monarchy,
                         And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar
                         Came hurriedly upon me, telling
                         Of human battle, where my voice,
                         My own voice, silly child!--was swelling
                         (O! how my spirit would rejoice,
                         And leap within me at the cry)
                         The battle-cry of Victory!

                         The rain came down upon my head
                         Unshelter'd--and the heavy wind
                         Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
                         It was but man, I thought, who shed
                         Laurels upon me: and the rush--
                         The torrent of the chilly air
                         Gurgled within my ear the crush
                         Of empires--with the captive's prayer--
                         The hum of suitors--and the tone
                         Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.

                         My passions, from that hapless hour,
                         Usurp'd a tyranny which men
                         Have deem'd, since I have reach'd to power,
                         My innate nature--be it so:
                         But, father, there liv'd one who, then,
                         Then--in my boyhood--when their fire
                         Burn'd with a still intenser glow
                         (For passion must, with youth, expire)
                         E'en then who knew this iron heart
                         In woman's weakness had a part.

                         I have no words--alas!--to tell
                         The loveliness of loving well!
                         Nor would I now attempt to trace
                         The more than beauty of a face
                         Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
                         Are--shadows on th' unstable wind:
                         Thus I remember having dwelt
                         Some page of early lore upon,
                         With loitering eye, till I have felt
                         The letters--with their meaning--melt
                         To fantasies--with none.

                         O, she was worthy of all love!
                         Love--as in infancy was mine--
                         'Twas such as angel minds above
                         Might envy; her young heart the shrine
                         On which my every hope and thought
                         Were incense--then a goodly gift,
                         For they were childish and upright--
                         Pure--as her young example taught:
                         Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
                         Trust to the fire within, for light?

                         We grew in age--and love--together--
                         Roaming the forest, and the wild;
                         My breast her shield in wintry weather--
                         And, when the friendly sunshine smil'd,
                         And she would mark the opening skies,
                         I saw no Heaven--but in her eyes.

                         Young Love's first lesson is--the heart:
                         For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
                         When, from our little cares apart,
                         And laughing at her girlish wiles,
                         I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,
                         And pour my spirit out in tears--
                         There was no need to speak the rest--
                         No need to quiet any fears
                         Of her--who ask'd no reason why,
                         But turn'd on me her quiet eye!

                         Yet more than worthy of the love
                         My spirit struggled with, and strove,
                         When, on the mountain peak, alone,
                         Ambition lent it a new tone--

                         I had no being--but in thee:
                         The world, and all it did contain
                         In the earth--the air--the sea--
                         Its joy--its little lot of pain
                         That was new pleasure--the ideal,
                         Dim, vanities of dreams by night--
                         And dimmer nothings which were real--
                         (Shadows--and a more shadowy light!)
                         Parted upon their misty wings,
                         And, so, confusedly, became
                         Thine image and--a name--a name!
                         Two separate--yet most intimate things.

                         I was ambitious--have you known
                         The passion, father? You have not:
                         A cottager, I mark'd a throne
                         Of half the world as all my own,
                         And murmur'd at such lowly lot--
                         But, just like any other dream,
                         Upon the vapor of the dew
                         My own had past, did not the beam
                         Of beauty which did while it thro'
                         The minute--the hour--the day--oppress
                         My mind with double loveliness.

                         We walk'd together on the crown
                         Of a high mountain which look'd down
                         Afar from its proud natural towers
                         Of rock and forest, on the hills--
                         The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
                         And shouting with a thousand rills.

                         I spoke to her of power and pride,
                         But mystically--in such guise

                         That she might deem it nought beside
                         The moment's converse; in her eyes
                         I read, perhaps too carelessly--
                         A mingled feeling with my own--
                         The flush on her bright cheek, to me
                         Seem'd to become a queenly throne
                         Too well that I should let it be
                         Light in the wilderness alone.

                         I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then
                         And donn'd a visionary crown--
                         Yet it was not that Fantasy
                         Had thrown her mantle over me--
                         But that, among the rabble--men,
                         Lion ambition is chain'd down--
                         And crouches to a keeper's hand--
                         Not so in deserts where the grand--
                         The wild--the terrible conspire
                         With their own breath to fan his fire.

                         Look 'round thee now on Samarcand!--
                         Is she not queen of Earth? her pride
                         Above all cities? in her hand
                         Their destinies? in all beside
                         Of glory which the world hath known
                         Stands she not nobly and alone?
                         Falling--her veriest stepping-stone
                         Shall form the pedestal of a throne--
                         And who her sovereign? Timour--he
                         Whom the astonished people saw
                         Striding o'er empires haughtily
                         A diadem'd outlaw!

                         O, human love! thou spirit given,
                         On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
                         Which fall'st into the soul like rain
                         Upon the Siroc-wither'd plain,
                         And, failing in thy power to bless,
                         But leav'st the heart a wilderness!
                         Idea! which bindest life around
                         With music of so strange a sound
                         And beauty of so wild a birth--
                         Farewell! for I have won the Earth.

                         When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could see
                         No cliff beyond him in the sky,
                         His pinions were bent droopingly--
                         And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.
                         'Twas sunset: when the sun will part
                         There comes a sullenness of heart
                         To him who still would look upon
                         The glory of the summer sun.
                         That soul will hate the ev'ning mist
                         So often lovely, and will list
                         To the sound of the coming darkness (known
                         To those whose spirits harken) as one
                         Who, in a dream of night, would fly
                         But cannot from a danger nigh.

                         What tho' the moon--the white moon
                         Shed all the splendor of her noon,
                         Her smile is chilly--and her beam,
                         In that time of dreariness, will seem
                         (So like you gather in your breath)
                         A portrait taken after death.

                         And boyhood is a summer sun
                         Whose waning is the dreariest one--
                         For all we live to know is known
                         And all we seek to keep hath flown--
                         Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
                         With the noon-day beauty--which is all.

                         I reach'd my home--my home no more--
                         For all had flown who made it so.
                         I pass'd from out its mossy door,
                         And, tho' my tread was soft and low,
                         A voice came from the threshold stone
                         Of one whom I had earlier known--
                         O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
                         On beds of fire that burn below,
                         An humbler heart--a deeper wo.

                         Father, I firmly do believe--
                         I know--for Death who comes for me
                         From regions of the blest afar,
                         Where there is nothing to deceive,
                         Hath left his iron gate ajar,
                         And rays of truth you cannot see
                         Are flashing thro' Eternity--
                         I do believe that Eblis hath
                         A snare in every human path--
                         Else how, when in the holy grove
                         I wandered of the idol, Love,
                         Who daily scents his snowy wings
                         With incense of burnt offerings
                         From the most unpolluted things,
                         Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
                         Above with trellic'd rays from Heaven

                         No mote may shun--no tiniest fly--
                         The light'ning of his eagle eye--
                         How was it that Ambition crept,
                         Unseen, amid the revels there,
                         Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
                         In the tangles of Love's very hair?

A DREAM.

                         IN visions of the dark night
                         I have dreamed of joy departed--
                         But a waking dream of life and light
                         Hath left me broken-hearted.

                         Ah! what is not a dream by day
                         To him whose eyes are cast
                         On things around him with a ray
                         Turned back upon the past?

                         That holy dream--that holy dream,
                         While all the world were childing,
                         Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
                         A lonely spirit guiding.

                         What though that light, thro' storm and night,
                         So trembled from afar--
                         What could there be more purely bright
                         In Truth's day-star?

ROMANCE.

                         ROMANCE, who loves to nod and sing,
                         With drowsy head and folded wing,
                         Among the green leaves as they shake
                         Far down within some shadowy lake,
                         To me a painted paroquet
                         Hath been--a most familiar bird--
                         Taught me my alphabet to say--
                         To lisp my very earliest word
                         While in the wild wood I did lie,
                         A child--with a most knowing eye.

                         Of late, eternal Condor years
                         So shake the very Heaven on high
                         With tumult as they thunder by,
                         I have no time for idle cares
                         Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
                         And when an hour with calmer wings
                         Its down upon my spirit flings--
                         That little time with lyre and rhyme
                         To while away--forbidden things!
                         My heart would feel to be a crime
                         Unless it trembled with the strings.

FAIRY-LAND.

                         DIM vales--and shadowy floods--
                         And cloudy-looking woods,
                         Whose forms we can't discover
                         For the tears that drip all over
                         Huge moons there wax and wane--
                         Again--again--again--
                         Every moment of the night--
                         Forever changing places--
                         And they put out the star-light
                         With the breath from their pale faces.
                         About twelve by the moon-dial
                         One more filmy than the rest
                         (A kind which, upon trial,
                         They have found to be the best)
                         Comes down--still down--and down
                         With its centre on the crown
                         Of a mountain's eminence,
                         While its wide circumference
                         In easy drapery falls
                         Over hamlets, over halls,
                         Wherever they may be--
                         O'er the strange woods--o'er the sea--
                         Over spirits on the wing--
                         Over every drowsy thing--
                         And buries them up quite
                         In a labyrinth of light--

                         And then, how deep!--O, deep!
                         Is the passion of their sleep.
                         In the morning they arise,
                         And their moony covering
                         Is soaring in the skies,
                         With the tempests as they toss,
                         Like--almost any thing--
                         Or a yellow Albatross.
                         They use that moon no more
                         For the same end as before--
                         Videlicet a tent--
                         Which I think extravagant:
                         Its atomies, however,
                         Into a shower dissever,
                         Of which those butterflies,
                         Of Earth, who seek the skies,
                         And so come down again
                         (Never-contented things!)
                         Have brought a specimen
                         Upon their quivering wings.

TO --.

                         THE bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
                         The wantonest singing birds,
                         Are lips--and all thy melody
                         Of lip-begotten words--

                         Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
                         Then desolately fall,
                         O God! on my funereal mind
                         Like starlight on a pall--

                         Thy heart--thy heart!--I wake and sigh,
                         And sleep to dream till day
                         Of the truth that gold can never buy--
                         Of the baubles that it may.

TO THE RIVER --.

                         FAIR river! in thy bright, clear flow
                         Of crystal, wandering water,
                         Thou art an emblem of the glow
                         Of beauty--the unhidden heart--
                         The playful maziness of art
                         In old Alberto's daughter;

                         But when within thy wave she looks--
                         Which glistens then, and trembles--
                         Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
                         Her worshipper resembles;
                         For in his heart, as in thy stream,
                         Her image deeply lies--
                         His heart which trembles at the beam
                         Of her soul-searching eyes.

THE LAKE--TO --.

                         IN spring of youth it was my lot
                         To haunt of the wide world a spot
                         The which I could not love the less--
                         So lovely was the loneliness
                         Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
                         And the tall pines that towered around.

                         But when the Night had thrown her pall
                         Upon that spot, as upon all,
                         And the mystic wind went by
                         Murmuring in melody--
                         Then--ah then I would awake
                         To the terror of the lone lake.

                         Yet that terror was not fright,
                         But a tremulous delight--
                         A feeling not the jewelled mine
                         Could teach or bribe me to define--
                         Nor Love--although the Love were thine.

                         Death was in that poisonous wave,
                         And in its gulf a fitting grave
                         For him who thence could solace bring
                         To his lone imagining--
                         Whose solitary soul could make
                         An Eden of that dim lake.

SONG.

                         I SAW thee on thy bridal day--
                         When a burning blush came o'er thee,
                         Though happiness around thee lay,
                         The world all love before thee:

                         And in thine eye a kindling light
                         (Whatever it might be)
                         Was all on Earth my aching sight
                         Of Loveliness could see.

                         That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame--
                         As such it well may pass--
                         Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
                         In the breast of him, alas!

                         Who saw thee on that bridal day,
                         When that deep blush would come o'er thee,
                         Though happiness around thee lay,
                         The world all love before thee.

TO HELEN.

                         HELEN, thy beauty is to me
                         Like those Nicéan barks of yore,
                         That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
                         The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
                         To his own native shore.

                         On desperate seas long wont to roam,
                         Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
                         Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
                         To the glory that was Greece,
                         And the grandeur that was Rome.

                         Lo! in you brilliant window-niche
                         How statue-like I see thee stand,
                         The agate lamp within thy hand!
                         Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
                         Are Holy-Land!

NEW AND VALUABLE
BOOKS,
PUBLISHED BY
WILEY AND PUTNAM,
161 Broadway, N. Y.

GERMAN ROMANCE.

        Undine and other Tales; by the Baron de la Motte Fouqué. Translated by the Rev. Thos. Tracy. A new edition, thoroughly revised and corrected. 1 neat volume, very handsomely printed on fine paper. 37½C.

        "A beautifully romantic tale of the highest excellence."--Conversations Lexicon.

        "A delightful tale, full of depth of thought and true poetic feeling."--Sir. J Mackintosh.

        "This exquisite tale is quite a literary pet in Germany."--Thomas Carlyle.

        "Fouqué's romances I always recommend, especially the wild, graceful, and touching Undine."--Sarah Austin.

        "The style and execution of this delightful romance are very graceful."--Hawkins' Germany.

        "Undine is indeed a very charming tale: it displays delicacy blended with great power, a heart-born truthfulness, and a divine spirit. Beauty and poetry disclose themselves in every page; it has, in fact, become a standard work in the department of the classical romance, and will never fall into oblivion."--Thimm's Liter. of Germany.

GLIMPSES OF THE WONDERFUL.

        Glimpses of the Wonderful. A book of interest and instruction for the youthful mind. 1 neat vol. 12mo., with 34 engravings very handsomely printed, and neatly bound. 75c.

        CONTENTS:--Ship-building--The Steam-ship--Eddystone Light-house--Comparative size of Public Buildings--The Churches of St. Peter and St. Paul--The Cave of Elephanta--Alnwick Castle--Ancient Punishment--The Chinese--Tiger Hunting--The Sperm-whale Fishery--The Narwhal--Crocodile Hunting--Pearl Diving--The Eagle--The Bat--The Flying-fish--The Lion and the Giraffe--The Boa Constrictor--Skeletons of the Boa and Elephant--The Rhinoceros--The Whale attacked by Fishes--The Greenland Whale--The Blood and Hair--The Porcupine--The Peter Botte Mountain--Icebergs--Astronomy--The Moon--Conclusion.

        "The author has moulded his work into that popular form which combines, in due proportion, amusement with instruction. The engravings are original and spirited."--Albany Argus.

        "There is so much sound sense and good advice in this pretty volume that we cannot be too earnest in recommending it. The engravings are remarkably clever."--Christian Remembrancer.

        "This is a most entertaining as well as instructive work. We strongly recommend it to parents and teachers as an excellent book for their juvenile friends."--New Haven Courier.

        "An excellent little work, which must soon become a favorite with our young friends. It has been tastefully got up, and the engravings are excellent."--N. Y. Courier.

        "The style of the author is remarkably forcible, chaste, and elegant."--N. Y. True Sun.

TALES OF THE KINGS OF ENGLAND.

        Tales of the Kings of England: Stories of Camps and Battle-Fields, Wars and Victories; from the Old Historians. By Stephen Percy. 2 very neat volumes, 18mo., with engravings. Each, 50 cents.

        "These works are constructed on a plan which is novel, and we think well chosen; and we are glad to find that they are deservedly popular, for they cannot be too strongly recommended, as adapted for the perusal of youth."--Journal of Education.

        "The design of these pretty volumes is excellent."--Atlas.

        "We know of no other books which so charmingly blend amusement with instruction. No juvenile books have been published in our time more entitled to praise."--Examiner.

        "These pleasing and simple stories are well adapted to the capacity of children."--Christ. Mag.

        "As amusing as they are instructive."--N. Y. Post.

DOCTRINE OF THE RESURRECTION.

        Anastasis: or the Doctrine of the Resurrection; in which it is shown that the Doctrine of the Resurrection of the Body is not sanctioned by Reason or Revelation. By George Bush, Professor of Hebrew, N. Y. University. SECOND EDITION. 1 thick vol. 12mo., well printed. $1 00.

        CONTENTS.--Introduction.--The knowledge of revelation progressive.--Part 1. The rational argument--Objections to the common view--Distinction of personal and bodily identity--The true body of the Resurrection, as inferred by reason.--Part 2. The Scriptural argument--Preliminary remarks--The Old Testament doctrine of the Resurrection--Onomatology; definition of terms--Examination of particular passages--New-Testament doctrine of the Resurrection--Origin and import of the word "Resurrection," as used in the New Testament--The Resurrection of Christ--Examination of particular passages--The Resurrection viewed in connection with the Judgment--The First Resurrection and the Judgment of the Dead--"The Times of the Restitution of all things"--Christ's "delivering up the kingdom"--The conclusion.

        "The author occupies an important station in the University of New York, and is advantageously known as a learned commentator on some books of the Old Testament. It would be wrong to depreciate either his attainments or his general orthodoxy; and all that the most earnest and careful exertion of his powers could enable him to do, he has evidently done, to recommend the sentiments unfolded in this volume. Much patient labor and uncommon ingenuity have been brought to bear upon it. There is also a spirit that cannot fail to be attractive--a spirit of candor and modesty, combined with independence. Educated young men, fond of novel and critical disquisitions, and students of divinity who are anxious to prove all things, will wish to make themselves acquainted with its contents."--London Baptist Magazine.

        "The deep and universal interest excited by the appearance of this most able work, has already demanded the issue of a second edition. The promulgation of the theory maintained so learnedly and cogently by the author, has given birth to a sharp and somewhat bitter controversy among theologians; and we are sorry to see that the ill-will engendered has, in some instances, led to the impeachment of the motives of the writer. This can never be justifiable, and is, in this case, most unfounded and unjust. No one who knows Professor Bush, will doubt for an instant the perfect conscientiousness of all that he has written or said: and the very strong and well-considered argument by which he supports his position, will require something more, by way of answer, than the aspersions to which we have alluded."--N. Y. Courier.

        "Prof. Bush deserves the highest commendation, for giving publicity to his views of this important Scriptural truth. These views differ widely from those commonly received by the religious world; and it is rare, indeed, to meet with the boldness which has been exhibited on this occasion. We believe the author must possess, in no common degree, that rare and precious quality--fidelity to one's own convictions of truth, and we heartily commend the work to the philosophical and the pious."--N Y. Mirror.

        "What we have read convinces us that Prof. Bush is a deeply-serious believer in the Scriptures, in the soul's immortality, and in future eternal rewards and punishments, and his theories, if adopted, are not calculated to endanger any one's spiritual interests."--Boston Recorder.

        "An able and learned work."--Christian Observer.

GARDENING FOR LADIES.

        Gardening for Ladies; and Companion to the Flower-Garden. Being an Alphabetical arrangement of all the ornamental Plants usually grown in gardens and shrubberies; with full directions for their culture. By Mrs. Loudon. First American, from the second London edition. Revised and edited by A. J. Downing. 1 thick vol. 12mo., with engravings representing the processes of grafting, budding, layering, &c., &c. $1 50.

        "A truly charming work, written with simplicity and clearness. It is decidedly the best work on the subject, and we strongly recommend it to all our fair countrywomen, as a work they ought not to be without."--N. Y. Courier.

        "Mr. Downing is entitled to the thanks of the fair florists of our country for introducing to their acquaintance this comprehensive and excellent manual, which must become very popular. Besides an instructive treatment on the best modes of culture, transplanting, bedding, training, destroying insects, &c., and the management of plants in pots and green-houses, illustrated with numerous plates; the work comprises a Dictionary of the English and Botanic names of the most popular flowers, with directions for their culture. Altogether we should judge it to be the most valuable work in the department to which it belongs."--Newark Advertiser.

        "This is a full and complete manual of instruction upon the subject of which it treats. Being intended for those who have little or no previous knowledge of gardening, it presents, in a very precise and detailed manner, all that is necessary to be known upon it, and cannot fail to awaken a more general taste for these healthful and pleasant pursuits among the ladies of our country."--N. Y. Tribune.

        "This truly delightful work cannot be too highly commended to our fair countrywomen."--N. Y. Journal of Commerce.

        "We cordially welcome, and heartily commend to all our fair friends, whether living in town or country, this very excellent work."--N. Y. Tribune.

THE BIRDS OF LONG ISLAND.

        Containing a description of the habits, plumage, &c., of all the species now known to visit that section, comprising the larger number of birds found throughout the State of New York, and the neighboring States. By T. P. Giraud, jr. 1 vol. 8vo. Price $2 00.

        This work, though designed chiefly for the use of the gunners and sportsmen residing on Long Island, will still serve as a book of reference for amateurs and others collecting ornithological specimens in various sections of the United States, particularly for those persons residing on the sea-coasts of New Jersey and the Eastern States.