Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,

Scattering unbeholden

Its aërial hue

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embowered

In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy. winged thieves.

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,

All that ever was

Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine;

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chaunt,

Matched with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

C

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy keen clear joyance,

Languor cannot be:

Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee:

Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not :

Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest

thought.

Yet if we could scorn

Hate, and pride, and fear;

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground'

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,

Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then, as I am listening

now.

TO VENUS.

BY ALBERT PIKE.

O, THOU, most lovely and most beautiful!
Whether thy doves now lovingly do lull
Thy bright eyes to soft slumbering upon
Some dreamy south wind: whether thou hast gone
Upon the heaven now, or if thou art
Within some floating cloud, and on its heart
Pourest rich-tinted joy; whether thy wheels
Are touching on the sun-forsaken fields,
And brushing off the dew from bending grass,
Leaving the poor green blades to look-alas!

With dim eyes at the moon-(ah! so dost thou Full oft quench brightness!)-VENUS, whether

now

Thou passest o'er the sea, while each light wing Of thy fair doves is wet, while sea-maids bring Sweet odours for thee-(ah! how foolish they! They have not felt thy smart!)

They know not, while in ocean-caves they play, How strong thou art.

Where'er thou art, O VENUS! hear our song-
Kind goddess, hear! for unto thee belong
All pleasant offerings: bright doves coo to thee,
The while they twine their necks with quiet glee
Among the morning leaves: thine are all sounds
Of pleasure on the earth; and where abounds
Most happiness, for thee we ever look;
Among the leaves, in dimly-lighted nook,
Most often hidest thou, where winds may wave
Thy sunny curls, and cool airs fondly lave
Thy beaming brow, and ruffle the white wings
Of thy tired doves; and where his love-song sings,
With lightsome eyes, some little, strange, sweet

bird,

With notes that never but by thee are heard-
O, in such scene, most bright, thou liest now,

And, with half-open eye,

Drinkest in beauty-O, most fair, that thou
Wouldst hear our cry!

O, thou, through whom all things upon the earth Grow brighter: thou for whom even laughing

mirth

Lengthens his note; thou whom the joyous bird
Singeth continuously; whose name is heard
In every pleasant sound: at whose warm glance
All things look brighter: for whom wine doth
dance

More merrily within the brimming vase,

To meet thy lip: thou, at whose quiet pace
Joy leaps on faster, with a louder laugh,
And Sorrow tosses to the sea his staff,
And pushes back the hair from his dim eyes,
To look again upon forgotten skies;
While Avarice forgets to count his gold,

Yea, unto thee his wither'd hand doth hold,

Fill'd with that heart-blood: thou, to whose high

might

All things are made to bow,

Come thou to us, and turn thy looks of light
Upon us now!

O, hear, great goddess! thou whom all obey;
At whose desire rough satyrs leave their play,
And gather wild-flowers, decking the bright hair
Of her they love, and oft blackberries bear
To shame them at her eyes: O, thou! to whom
They leap in awkward mood, within the gloom
Of darkening oak trees, or at lightsome noon
Sing unto thee, upon their pipes, a tune