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And now, a peasant girl, abashed she stands :
How pretty and how timid are her eyes :
How acts her part of shy and sweet surprise :
How earnest is her love without disguise !
She finds him false on whom her faith relies,
A Sylphide now, among her bower of roses,
Or, by lone reeds, a Lake's enamoured fairy, Her lovely limbs to slumber she composes,
Or flies aloft, with gestures soft and airy
Still on her guard when seeming most unwary, Scarce seen, before the small feet twinkle past,
Haunting, and yet of love's caresses charyHer maddened lover follows vainly fast, While still the perfect step seems that she danced the
Poor Child of Pleasure! thou art young and fair,
And youth and beauty are enchanting things : But hie thee home, bewitching Bayadère,
Strip off thy glittering armlets, pearls, and rings,
Thy peasant boddice, and thy Sylphide wings : Grow old and starve: require true Christian aid :
And learn, when real distress thy bosom wrings, For whom was all that costly outlay made: For Self, and not for thee, the golden ore was paid !
As you move through the narrow streets of Smyrna says the author of Eothen, at the time of the festival, the transom-shaped windows suspended over your head on either side are filled with the beautiful descendants of the old Ionian race; all (even yonder empress that sits throned at the window of that humblest mud cottage) are attired with seeming magnificence; their classic heads are crowned with scarlet, and loaded with jewels, or coins of gold—the whole wealth of the wearers;—their features are touched with a savage pencil, which hardens the outline of eyes and eye-brows, and lends an unnatural fire to the stern, grave looks, with which they pierce your brain. Endure their fiery eyes as best you may, and ride on slowly and reverently, for facing you from the side of the transom, that looks longwise through the street, you see the one glorious shape transcendent in its beauty; you see the massive braid of hair as it catches a touch of light on its jetty surface—and the broad, calm, angry brow—the large black eyes, deep set, and self-relying like the eyes of as conqueror, with their rich shadows of thought lying darkly around them-you see the thin fiery nostril, and the bold line of the chin and throat disclosing all the fierceness, and all the pride, passion, and power that can live along with the rare womanly beauty of those sweetly turned lips. But then there is a terrible stillness in this breathing image; it seems like the stillness of a savage that sits intent and brooding, day by day, upon some one fearful scheme of vengeance, but yet more like it seems to the stillness of an immortal whose will must be known and obeyed without sign or speech. Bow down! Bow down, and adore the young Persephone, transcendent queen of shades, ,
THE MISSION OF THE TEAR.
The skies were its birthplace—the TEAR was the
child Of the dark maiden SORROW, by young Joy beguiled; It was born in convulsion; 'twas nurtured in woe; And the world was yet young when it wandered below.
II. No angel-bright guardians watched over its birth, Ere yet it was suffered to roam upon earth; No spirits of gladness its soft form caressed; SIGHs mourned round its cradle, and hushed it to rest.
III. Though Joy might endeavour, with kisses and wiles, To lure it away to his household of smiles;
From the daylight he lived in it turned in affright, To nestle with SORROW in climates of night.
When it came upon earth, 'twas to choose a career,
Few repelled it—some blessed it—wherever it came; Whether softening, their sorrow, or soothing their
shame; And the joyful themselves, though its name they
might fear, Oft welcomed the calming approach of the TEAR!
VI. Years on years have worn onward, as—watched from
aboveSpeeds that meek spirit yet on its labour of love; Still the exile of Heaven, it ne'er shall away; Every heart has a home for it, roam where it may !
FATE OF THE PROUD MAN.
Room for the proud! ye sons of clay, From far his sweeping pomp survey, Nor, rashly curious, clog the way
His chariot wheels before.
Lo! with what scorn his lofty eye
Far from his palace door.
Room for the proud! but slow the feet That bear his coffin down the street: And dismal seems his winding-sheet
Who purple lately wore.
Ah, where must now his spirit fly
Who showed it not before?
Room for the proud ! in ghastly state The lords of hell his coming wait; And, flinging wide the dreadful gate
That shuts to ope no more.