Whilst far along the crimson'd deep
His coruscating glories sleep.

At this wrapt moment when my soul
Was steep'd in transport's tide,
Adown the velvet margin stole
A sylph with pinions pied,

Just like to whom, when wont to rove,
Might seem the feather'd god of love.

Of roseate hue-advanc'd the sprite,
While laugh'd his azure eyes
With such a warm, yet holy, light
As smiles through autumn-skies.

About him gleam'd a halo mild,

And thus outspoke the wingy child:

"To erring man is not bequeath'd

The bloom of griefless joy,

With rapture's flowers, alas! are wreath'd

The scions of alloy.

Scarce bud the shoots from pleasure's stem,

Ere sorrow's germs in weave with them.

I

"Yet, favour'd mortal, thine the lot

Nor misery's cup to drain,

Whose lighter evils seem forgot

In bounty's ample reign.

Unlike thy brother earthlings, thou

Hast Heav'n enthron'd upon thy brow.

"It seem'st as tho' thy destiny

Unbosom'd every bliss,

What other worlds can yield to thee

Thou'st antepast in this.

Beatitudes already won,

Ere yet thy pilgrimage is run.

"Each want, each wish, the heart may dare

In amplitude is thine,

Thou badst a long farewell to care

When plighted at my shrine.

The sun that lit thy bridal noon

Bespoke for thee that nuptial boon.

"And this the day thy gentle mate

First drank the light of life,

The blest, auspicious natal date

Of thy fond youthful wife.

Go strike the mellow harp of joy,

Let busy mirth thy hours employ.

"O thine the fervid, hallow'd trust Of Hymen's sacred fire—

Thy Kitty's love, thy last, thy first,

Thy only true desire.

And ever let her constancy

Awake responsive truth in thee.

"Full oft revolve the gladsome round

Of this memorial day,

May pledges of thy bliss abound

On wedlock's holy spray;

And be each infant bud that blows

An icon of its mother-rose."

The strain had ceas'd and yet a while

The bloomy boy would sing,

As archly with a sunny smile

He plum'd his urchin wing,

Then soaring, cried-" Remember well
What Hymen's self has lov'd to tell."

THE CHOICE.

"They remove the sun from the world who take away love from life."

SHOULD I, by chance, ere be pursued

By Fortune in some sportive mood,

And in her net be caught,

And she be well inclin'd to ask

Me then to name some welcome task,
Or one with pleasure fraught-

I'd joyously the question meet
Of others all to me most sweet,

The answer this, I'd give―
"Grant me, O Fortune, by thy power,
Permission in lover's myrtle bower

With Barbara to live."