Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing
Would, like the Patriarch's, sooth a dying hour,
With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing,
As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit bower;

With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil;
With motions graceful, as a bird's in air;
Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil
That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair!

That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas tree; And in thy wrath, a nursing cat-o'-mountain

Is calm as her babe's sleep, compared with thee!

And underneath that face, like summer ocean's,
Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear,
Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions,

Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow,—all save fear.

Love-for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars; Hatred-of missionaries and cold water;

Pride-in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars;

Hope that thy wrongs, may be by the Great Spirit Remembered and revenged, when thou art gone; Sorrow-that none are left thee to inherit

Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne!

LOVE.

The imperial votress passed on

In maiden meditation, fancy free.

Midsummer Night's Dream,

Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?

BENEDICT, in Much Ado about Nothing.

I.

WHEN the tree of Love is budding first,

Ere yet its leaves are green,

Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nurst

Its infant life has been;

The wild bee's slightest touch might wring

The buds from off the tree,

As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing
Breaks the bubbles on the sea.

II.

But when its open leaves have

A home in the free air,

ind

Pluck them, and there remain

Tound

That ever rankles there.

The blight of hope and happiness
Is felt when fond ones part,

And the bitter tear that follows is
The life-blood of the heart.

III.

When the flame of love is kindled first, 'Tis the fire-fly's light at even,

'Tis dim as the wandering stars that burst In the blue of the summer heaven. A breath can bid it burn no more,

Or if, at times, its beams

Come on the memory, they pass o'er
Like shadows in our dreams.

IV.

But when that flame has blazed into

A being and a power,

And smiled in scorn upon the dew
That fell in its first warm hour,

'Tis the flame that curls round the martyr's head, Whose task is to destroy;

'Tis the lamp on the altars of the dead, Whose light but darkens joy!

V.

Then crush, even in their hour of birth,

The infant buds of Love,

And tread his glowing fire to earth,

Ere 'tis dark in clouds above;

Cherish no more a cypress tree
To shade thy future years,

Nor nurse a heart-flame that may be
Quenched only with thy tears.