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To blast that fair-deceiving Plant to
Fame!

With mimic tints the vegetable child
Low as the sage-plant crept along,
and smiled.

O never may it drink the golden light
With laughing tints.....the Garden's
Hypocrite!

Ye colder Botanists the Plant describe,
Gaze on the spectre-form* and class
the tribe!

But ye sweet-souled, whose pensive

bosoms glow

With the soft images of amorous woe,
From you the muse one tender tear

The third tale, addressed to a Sybarite, is a very pleasing improvement upon the well-known story of also taken a hint from an incident Pygmalion and the Statue. It has contained in the "Winter Tale." The argument of this performance of the town of Sybacis, unrivalled in is as follows....Anasilis is a youth beauty. He excites the love and rivalship of all the females of the place, but he remained unmoved by their sighs, and unconquered by their charms....or in the figurative language of the poet....

"This bird on fluttering wings re-
fused the cage,

Nor lost a feather in his sprightly age;
From the soiled nets of beauty flew

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This day of freedom, however, does not always last. In a solitude lover kept secluded from public not far from the town, an hoary view, a child-like maiden called

Aglaia, under the care of a woman named Myseida. This matron had been the nurse of Anasilis, and still retained for him maternal affection. She, in violation of her trust, permits him, while concealed, to see Aglaia. He becomes instantly passionately enamoured Loved of the Muse, thou self- of her. He prevails on Myseida

would claim;

One shudder, at the plant without a

name!

devoted Maid!

(A verse is music to a Lover's shade) For thee she bids a silver lily wave, Planting the emblem on a Virgin's

grave;

On Love's immortal scroll with tenderest claim,

to introduce into the apartment of the maid, a statue exquisitehimself. Aglaia beholds this statue ly executed, exactly resembling ....admires its surpassing beauty.... calls it by the name of love....and

Inscribes a Carder's with a Carrier's her imagination dwells in rapturous

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fondness on its charms. Anasilis having thus far succeeded in his design, withdraws the statue from Aglaia's chamber....and unseen beholds her warm tears, and hears her enamoured sighs. In a favourable moment, he enters the bower, throws himself upon the ground, closes his eyes, and seems to be locked in insensibility and slumber, Aglaia comes, beholds the youth in the arbour. She supposes him to be the statue. She runs de

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lighted to embrace him, and he awakens to life and to love...... Here, however, we shall let the author speak for himself, as the close of this poem is one of the finest specimens of his poetry....

"'Tis love! (she hardly breathes) the God is here!

Stept from his pedestal, a breathing form!

Marble so lov'd relents, and like myself is warm.

Ah, not in vain th' ideal form I loved, Not vain the silent tears, a picture moved!....

Stilly she trod and all unbreathing gazed,

Then tremulously kissed the hand she

raised.

The Virgin Kiss imparts the finest flame,

The sweet sensation trembling thro' her frame;

Nor quits the hand, but half delirious takes

To press it to her heart....and love

awakes!

She kneels....Can anger in that softness dwell?

Once having seen thee must I bid fare

wel?

Is love a crime? then half the guilt be thine,

Blame thy seducing powers, thine

eyes divine!

Think ere thou shak'st me from thy

gentle arm

How small the triumph o'er a virgin

form!

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It will be observed by the Critical Reader of these Narrative Poems, that the author endeavours to apply words in a singular and original sometimes happy in his attempt, manner, and that though he is yet it sometimes leads into obscurity. We think that he is rather too rapid in his narration, that he leaves too much to be supplied by the imagination of the reader, and that he would interest more, did he introduce more events, and dwell more minutely upon them. We fear that D'Israeli is rather verging too much on the borders of Della Cruscan and Darwinian po"Unskill'd how features etry; but with all his faults, we are abroad,"

Anasilis in fond entrancement hears,

Bends o'er the Nymph and kissed

away her fears.

Then thus.... An innocent deceit forgive;

Smile on thy picture and the form

shall live.

She then,

First of thy Race, to me thou art a

God!

How oft when idle Fancy idly roved

consider him as a writer who possesses a rich and original fancy.... who discovers an active and well furnished mind.

POETRY.

For the Literary Magazine.

ORIGINAL.

LINES TO OLINDA.

WHERE roves my sad romantic maid,

Kind shepherds, can you tell? Say have you seen her in the shade, The hill, or tangled dell?

SELECTED.

COMINGE.

BY J. D'ISRAELI.

'Twas where La Trappe had raised his savage seat,

Of grief and piety the last retreat; And dark the rocks and dark the forest lay,

Tell me, sweet stream that babblest by, And shrill the wind blew o'er the Ab

Hast thou not listen'd to her sigh?

Sad echo, from thy mossy hall,

Didst thou the wanderer see; And didst thou answer to her call, And did she speak of me? Soft gales of evening bath'd in dew, O! have you seen her as you flew ?

I seek her over hill and dale,

O'er stream, thro' whisp'ring grove; I tell her name to every gale

Breathed from the heart of love; I call...but still no voice replies, I call...but still Olinda flies.

The robe she wears, of azure hue,
Floats loosely on the air;
Her eyes are of seraphic blue,

Pale-brown her waving hair.
Her steps are like the bounding roe,
Her cheeks the rose,her forehead snow.

The nightingale would cease to sing
To listen to her lay,

And zephyr spread his silken wing
To bear the notes away:
Her voice, her air, her face impart
A mind, a genius, and a heart.

Behold the sun withdraws his beam,

And darkness shrouds the scene;
The night-bird pours his hollow scream
The night-wind sweeps the green.
No pipe is heard on mead or rock,
The shepherd homeward drives his
flock.

O then return my peerless fair,
Restrain thy eager flight,
The falling dews will drench thine
hair,

Unwholesome is the night...
I'll wind each thicket, beat each shade,
Till I have found thee, wandering maid.

I. O.

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could I live, and think Cominge for me

Was worn by chains, and lost in misery?

Those parents doomed me to a loveless mind,

Not to their daughter but a stranger kind.

Ruthless ambition! immolating sires With victim-children crowd thy Moloch fires.

The soul that lost its Mistress sought The early rose, by hands ungentle cast,

its God!

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Feels o'er its youth of sweets the wast

ing blast;

Such wo the ransom of my lover paid, And sometimes more than constancy displayed.

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