Whose head in wintry grandeur towers,

And whitens with eternal sleet, While summer, in a vale of flowers,

Is sleeping rosy at his feet. To one, who look'd from upper air O’er all the enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the glow, The life, the sparkling from below Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks, More golden where the sunlight falls ; Gay lizards glittering on the walls* Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright As they were all alive with light ;And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, With their rich restless wings, that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm west, as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine, car made Of tearless rainbows, such as span The unclouded skies of PERISTAN! And then the mingling sounds that come, Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum Of the wild bees of PALESTINE, Banquetting through the flowery vales,And, JORDAN, those sweet banks of thine, And woods, so full of nightingales ! But nought can charm the luckless PERI; Her soul is sad her wings are weary Joyless she sees the sun look down On that great temple once his own, t Whose lonely columns stand sublime,

Flinging their shadows from on high Like dials, which the wizard, Time,

Had rais'd to count his ages by !
Yet haply there may lie conceal'd

Beneath those chambers of the sun,
Some amulet of gems, anneal'd
In upper fires, some tablet seal'a

With the great name of SOLOMON,

Which, spell’d by her illunin'd eyes,
May teach her where, beneath the moon,
In earth or ocean lies the boon,
The charm that can restore so soon,

An erring Spirit to the skies !

Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither ;

Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,

Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither ;
When o'er the vale of BALBEC winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild flowers singing,
As
rosy

and as wild as they ;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies*
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems :-
And, near the boy, who, tir'd with play,
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man đismount

From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount

Impatient fling him down to drink. Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd

To the fair child, who fearless sat, Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd

Upon a brow more fierce than that
Sullenly fierce-a mixture dire,
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire !
In which the Peri's eye could read
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ;
The ruin'd maid—the shrine profan'd-
Oaths broken--and the threshold stain's
With blood of guests !--there written, all,
Black as the damning drops that fall
From the denouncing angel's pen,
Ere mercy weeps them out again !
Yet tranquil now that man of crime
(As if the balmy evening time
Soften’d his spirit,) look'd and lay,
Watching the rosy infant's play:
Through still, whene'er his eye by chance
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze,
As torches, that have burnt all night
Through some impure and godless rite,

Encounter morning's glorious rays.
But hark! the vesper-call to prayer,

As slow the orb of day-light sets,
Is rising sweetly on the air,

From SYRIA's thousand minarets !
The boy has started from the bed
Of flowers, where he had laid his head,

# Vide Sonnini.

And down upon the fragrant sod

Kneels, with his forehead to the south,
Lisping th' eternal name of God

From purity's own cherub mouth,
And looking, while his hands and eyes
Are lifted to the glowing skies,
Like a stray babe of paradise,
Just lighted on that flowery plain,
And seeking for its home again !
Oh 'twas a sight—that Heav'n—that Child
A scene, which might have well beguil'd
Even haughty Ellis of a sigh,
For glories lost and peace gone by!
And how felt he, the wretched man
Reclining there—while memory ran
O'er many a year of guilt and strife,
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life,
Nor found one sunny resting-place,
Nor brought him back one branch of grace !
6. There was a time,” he said in mild
Heart-humbled tones—5 thou blessed child !
66 When young and haply pure as thou,
“ I look'd and pray'd like thee_but now-"
He hung his head each nobler aim

And hope and feeling, which had slept
From boyhood hour, that instant came

Fresh o'er him, and he wept—he wept ! Blest tears of soul-felt penitence,

In whose benign, redeeming flow Is felt the first, the only sense

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. “ There is a drop," said the PERI, “ that down from the moon “ Falls through the withering airs of June 66 Upon Egypt's land, * of so healing a power, 66 So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour “ That drop descends, contagion dies, 66 And health reanimates earth and skies ! 66 Oh! is it not thus, thou man of sin,

- The precious tears of repentance fall ! " Though foul thy fiery plagues within,

" One heavenly drop hath dispell’d them all !”
And now_behold him kneeling there
By the child's side in humble prayer,
While the same sun-beam shines upon
The guilty and the guiltless one,
And hymns of joy proclaim through Heaven
The triumph of a Soul Forgiven !

'Twas when the golden orb had set,
While on their knees they linger'd yet,
There fell a light, more lovely far
Than ever came from sun or star,
Upon the tear that, warm and meek,
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek :
To mortal eye this light might seem
A northern flash or meteor beam
But well the enraptur' PERI knew
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw
From Heaven's gate, to hail that tear
Her harbinger of glory near!
“ Joy, joy for ever! my task is done
« The Gates are pass’d, and Heaven is won !
“ Oh ! am I not happy ? I am, I am

“ To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad
" Are the diamond turrets of SHADUKIAM*

“ And the fragrant bowers of AMBERABAD !
“ Farewel, ye odours of Earth, that die,
“ Passing away like a lover's sigh ;-
“ My feast is now of the Tooba Tree, t
“ Whose scent is the breath of Eternity!
“ Farewel ye vanishing flowers, that shone

" In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief,
“ Ob! what are the brightest that e'er have blown
“ To the lote-tree, springing by ALLA's throne,I

" Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf !
« Joy, joy for ever! my task is done
“ The Gates are pass'd, and Heav'n is won !"

THE RED NOSE.

Non potis est Proclus digitis imungere Nasum namquo est pro nasimolo pugilla manus.

DRYDEN’S definition, “ that the soul is a little blue flame running about within us,” must flash conviction upon the mind of an infidel. What renders the thought yet more admirable is, that it is far from an inferior description of love ; for, if love be not also “ a little blue flame running about within us,” what is it? But, whatever difficulties ob.' struct the definition of the passion, few are ignorant of its effects. The biographer, the critic, the mathematician, the geographer, the historian, and the naturalist, deviate imperceptibly from the point, to relate the wonderful effects of love. The monarch forgets his inequality, and kneels; the minister flies the court, and sighs; and even the fishwoman, as she bears the embrosial brandy to her lips, acknowledges the power of love, and calls for more !

Maria Hargrave was the daughter of a clergyman : her teeth rivalled the ivory; her lips vied with the rose; her breath emulated its odori. ferousness ; her bosom palpitated with love ; her eye sparkled with voluptuousness ; she had wit and good nature ; confidence and modesty; judgment and generosity: the Graces danced in her train ; the Loves smiled at her approach. In honest truth, Maria as infinitely excelled the Sophias, Clarissas, Emilys, Stellas, Narcissas, and Sacharissas, as Eclipse did Rosinante.

But, alas! nothing is faultless. Perfection is but a word. In Maria's face stood a Nose, modelled by envy ; in magnitude surpassing the invention of Slawkenbergius ; in colour !--did but the tithe of it adorn the countenance of death, half his terrors would disappear, and we might press him to our breasts in mistake.

Our heroine was none of those self partial maidens who conceive themselves little short of excellence, whilst the world distinguishes nothing but imperfection : no; she had accomplishments sufficient to have been proud, and beauties enough to have been vain ; nevertheless, she was sensible she had a red nose, and was humble. Would to heaven half the ladies in the universe had red noses !

Possessed of such desirable qualifications, Maria danced away her eighteenth birth-night without a lover. She obtained indeed a transi. tory admirer ; but the moment her sister Charlotte appeared, the molles oculi were fixed upon her, leaving poor Maria to cogitate upon her nose in solitude. It was vexatious; and had she conceived that tears would have quenched its rubicund glow, or diminished its longitude, she would have wept : but she expected not miracles in her favour; and as, amidst all the panaceas she had heard of, she had met with every thing but a cure for copper noses, she wisely determined to be content where discontent would have availed her nothing.

Though Maria was the first-born, Charlotte stood not upon ceremony, and married. “ Now,” said Maria, “ if my nose be not an insurmountable obstruction, the conjugal road is without impediment.” As she finished the sentence, Mr Conway was introduced : he was in short, he was six feet high.

When Maria perceived the skirt of a coat, she involuntarily applied a 'kerchief to her face. It requires as much magnanimity to expose a red nose, unabashed by observation, as to conceal a handsome one beneath a mask. Conway was struck with the exact symmetry of her form and the gracefulness of her motions. A man is ever in a hurry to be in love, and ever in haste to be out again. A few moments conversation satisfied Conway that Maria's sentiments were just, her judg