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'OT long ago, the writer of these lines,

In the mad pride of intellectuality,

Maintained the power of words,' denied that ever

A thought arose within the human brain

Beyond the utterance of the human tongue :
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words-two foreign soft dissyllables-
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew

That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”-
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions

Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,

(Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,")
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
I cannot write-I cannot speak or think—
Alas, I cannot feel; for 't is not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid unpurpled vapours, far away

To where the prospect terminates—thee only.

I SAW thee once- -once only-years ago :
I must not say how many--but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out

A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,

With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand

Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe-
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses,

That gave out, in return for the love-light,

Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—

Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

LAD all in white, upon a violet bank

I saw thee half reclining; while the moon

Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn'd-alas, in sorrow!

Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight-
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!-oh, God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused-I looked-
And in an instant all things disappeared.

(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out :
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,

The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odours
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.

All-all expired save thee-save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes-
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.

I saw but them--they were the world to me. I saw but them-saw only them for hours-Saw only them until the moon went down.