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And dim-discovered glow the Sabine hills,
And listening to the sea's monotonous shell,
High on the cliffs of Terracina stands
The castle of the royal Goth in ruins.

But night is in her wane :-day's early flush Glows like a hectic on her fading cheek, Wasting its beauty. And the opening dawn With cheerful lustre lights the royal city, Where with its proud tiara of dark towers, It sleeps upon its own romantic bay.

THE FAIR ITALIAN.

She looked how lovely.--Not the face heaven
In its serenest calm, nor earth in all
Its garniture of flowers, nor all that live
In the bright world of dreams, nor all the eye
Of a creative spirit meets in air,
Could in the smile and sunshine of her charms,
Not feel itself o'ermastered by such rare
And perfect beauty. Grace was over all;-
Her form, her face, her attitudes, her motions,
Each had peculiar charms.-Like gliding swans,
Sailing upon the bosom of a lake,
Before the breeze of evening, when the waves

Curl rippling round their bosoms, so she moved
Through all the mazy dance. She bore herself
So gently, that the lily on its stalk
Bends not so easily its dewy head,
As with a gliding step she wound her way
To the soft echoes of the light guitar,
The dreamy music of her sunny clime,
Where all is languishing. There was a brightness,
How high, and yet how soothing in her smile.
0! I could look on her, a summer's day,
Delighted—every moment more delighted,
With the soft sense that hovers over me,
When on a slope of moss, I lay me down
In the warm sun of April. I could kneel
In worship to her, as a radiant vision
Sent from a purer world, without a stain
Of earth breathed over her, but all entire
In infant loveliness, yet ripe and full
In her meridian elegance, a flower
With all its leaves expanded, and its hues
Mellowed by kindly sunbeams.

It was evening ;The sun looked through the wood of chesnut trees, And bronzed their rugged trunks, and lit their leaves, Till, as they rustled on the bending boughs, Each seemed a flake of gold; and far beyond them My eye caught glimpses of a quiet bay, A nook of sleeping waters, where the light, Shone with a flashing blaze. It was so still!

The wind had stolen into the mountain valleys,
And left the plains and hillocks to the calm,
That sinks upon the world, when night steals on,
And the day takes its farewell, like the words
Of a departing friend, or the last tone
Of hallowed music, in a minster's aisles,
Heard, when it floats along the shade of elms,
In the still place of graves. A wood of palms
Rose on a far hill, where the amber light
Was rich and dazzling, with their pointed leaves
So nicely balanced, that the faintest breathing
Of the wide air swayed them in graceful curves,
While all below seemed in the still repose
Of sleep, the twin of death, that infant slumber,
Where life is only visible in the play
Of blushes, which forever come and go
On the soft cheek's transparency, as pure
As the clear rime, that masks the untimely rose,
Mellowing its purple to the hues of heaven,
The tremulous tints of air.

I lay abroad In careless dreaming, by the twisted roots Of an outspreading beech-tree, and methought, The swains of Enna and Parthenope Were dancing round me to the sound of viols And oaten pipes. As the light sank away, The rose and jasmine thickets, and the shades O’erhung with vines, in the full scent of flowers, Seemed populous with the silvan family

Of nymphs and fauns. I listened to the sounds
Of Grecian melody and song, and lay
Reclining on a couch of new plucked leaves,
Attentive to the many quiet voices,
That fill a summer's night—the drowsy hum
Of beetles, and the shrill cicada's song,
And the complaining of the nightingale,
That in a bush of brambles, passed away
The silent hours, in answering to the echoes,
Herself had made. As thus I sank away
In pleasant thoughts of the dear times of old,
I saw a group of dancers, on a lawn
Not distant, to the music of a lute
Cross the yet rosy twilight. She was there,
Lovelier for the witching time, they chose
To be their hour of joy. Her full dark curls
Were clustered on a brow of ivory,
And fell in lavish wealth, shading a neck
Clear as an alabaster shrine concealing
A ruby, that with soft suffusion fills it,
As with a living glow. Her face was kindled
By the quick glances of her large black eyes,
That flashed from underneath her arching brows,
Like gems in caves; and yet there was a softness
At times, when shades of thought stole over her-
But in the happy consciousness of beauty
Her heart was all so joyous, that her smiles
Gave a perpetual sunlight to that face,
So beautiful, to see it was to love.
I could not choose but watch with earnest gaze

One of so perfect form, and finished grace,
That those who moved around her, were but foils
Heightening the one sole diamond. When I look
On one so fair, I must believe that Heaven
Sent her in kindness, that our hearts might waken
To its own loveliness, and lift themselves
By such an adoration from a dark
And grovelling world. Such beauty should be wor-

shipped,
And not a thought of weakness or decay
Should mingle with the pure and hallowed dreams,
In which it dwells before us. It should live
Eternal; or, if it must pass away,
And lose one tint of its now perfect brightness,
Let it be hidden from me, for the sense,
That all this glow must fade, falls on my heart,
Like the cold weight of death.

THE VENETIAN GONDOLIER.

Here rest the weary oar!-soft airs

Breathe out in the o’erarching sky;
And Night!-sweet Night-serenely wears

A smile of peace;-her noon is nigh.

Where the tall fir in quiet stands,

And waves, embracing the chaste shores,

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