Were all earth's breathing forms to pass
Before me in Agrippa's glass,*

Many as fair as thou might be,
But oh! not one, not one like thee.

Thou art no child of fancy—thou
The very look dost wear,
That gave enchantment to a brow
Wreathed with luxuriant hair;
Lips of the morn embathed in dew,
And eyes of evening's starry blue;
Of all whoe'er enjoy'd the sun,
Thou art the image of but One.

And who was she in virgin prime,
And May of womanhood,

Whose roses here, unpluck'd by Time,
In shadowy tints have stood;
While many a winter's withering blast
Hath o'er the dark cold chamber pass'd
In which her once resplendent form
Slumber'd to dust beneath the storm?

Of gentle blood ;-upon her birth
Consenting planets smiled,

And she had seen those days of mirth
That frolic round the child.

To bridal bloom her strength had sprung,
Behold her beautiful and young!

Lives there a record, which hath told

That she was wedded, widow'd, old!

* Henry Cornelius Agrippa of Netteshiem, counsellor to Charles V., Emperor of Germany, the author of "Occult Philosophy," and other profound works, is said to have shown the Earl of Surrey the image of his mistress, Geraldine, in a magical mirror.

Incognita.

How long her date, 'twere vain to guess;

The pencil's cunning art
Can but a single glance express,

One motion of the heart;

A smile, a blush, a transient grace
Of air, and attitude, and face;
One passion's changing colour mix,
One moment's flight for ages fix.

Her joys and griefs alike in vain
Would fancy here recall;
Her throbs of ecstasy or pain

Lull'd in oblivion all.

With her, methinks, life's little hour
Pass'd like the fragrance of a flower,
That leaves upon the vernal wind
Sweetness we ne'er again may find.

Where dwelt she?-Ask yon aged tree,
Whose boughs embower the lawn,
Whether the birds' wild minstrelsy
Awoke her here at dawn;
Whether beneath its youthful shade,
At noon in infancy she play'd:
If from the oak no answer come,
Of her all oracles are dumb.

The dead are like the stars by day;
Withdrawn from mortal eye,
But, not extinct, they hold their way
In glory through the sky :

Spirits from bondage thus set free

Vanish amidst immensity,

Where human thought, like human sight,

Fails to pursue their trackless flight.

169

Somewhere within created space,

Could I explore that round, In bliss or woe there is a place,

Where she might still be found; And oh unless those eyes deceive, I may, I must, I will believe,

That she, whose charms so meekly glow,

Is what she only seem❜d below :—

An angel in that glorious realm,

Where God himself is King ;—
But awe and fear, that overwhelm
Presumption, check my wing;
Nor dare imagination look
Upon the symbols of that book,
Wherein eternity enrolls

The judgments on departed souls.

Of her of whom these pictured lines
A faint resemblance form;—
Fair as the second rainbow shines
Aloof amid the storm ;—
Of her this "shadow of a shade,"
Like its original must fade,
And she, forgotten when unseen,

Shall be as if she ne'er had been.

Ah! then perchance this dreaming strain, Of all that e'er I sung,

A lorn memorial may remain,

When silent lies my tongue; When shot the meteor of my fame, Lost the vain echo of my name, This leaf, this fallen leaf, may be

The only trace of her and me.

Oh no, we never speak of Her!

AN AFTER-THOUGHT.

With one who lived of old, my song

In lowly cadence rose;
To one who is unborn, belong

The accents of its close;

Ages to come, with courteous ear,

Some youth my warning voice may hear;

And voices from the dead should be

The warnings of eternity.

When these weak lines thy presence greet,

Reader! if I am bless'd,

Again, as spirits, may we meet

In glory and in rest:

If not-and I have lost my way,
Here part we-go not thou astray;
No tomb, no verse my story tell!
Once, and for ever, fare thee well.

Oh no, we never speak of her!

BY T. H. BAYLY.

Oh no, we never speak of her—

Her name is never heard ;

My lips are now forbid to breathe
That once familiar word!

From sport to sport they hurry me,

To banish my regret ;

And when they win a smile from me,
They think that I forget.

171

They bid me seek in change of scene
The charms that others see;
But were I in a foreign land,

They'd find no change in me.
'Tis true that I behold no more
The valley where we met;
I do not see the hawthorn-tree-
But how can I forget?

For ah, there are so many things
Recall the past to me—
The breeze upon the sunny hill,
The billows on the sea;
The rosy tints that deck the sky
Before the sun is set-
Ay, every leaf I look upon
Forbids me to forget.

They tell me she is happy now,

The gayest of the gay; They say that she forgets me,

But I heed not what they say: Like me, perhaps, she struggles with Each feeling of regret ;

But if she loves as I have loved,

She never can forget.