HE more I've view'd this world, the more I've


That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creatures


Fancy commands, within her own bright round,
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her

power can call up there

A single charm, that's not from Nature won,
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single hue unborrow'd from the sun-
But 'tis the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on Peris' wings!

And such, I deem, the diff'rence between the real,
Existing Beauty and that form ideal

Which she assumes, when seen by poets' eyes,
Like sunshine in the drop-with all those dyes
Which Fancy's variegating prism supplies.

I have a story of two lovers, fill'd

With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness,

And the sad, doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd

Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness.

But where to choose the region of my vision

In this wide, vulgar world-what real spot

Can be found out sufficiently Elysian
For two such perfect lovers, I know not.
Oh for some fair FORMOSA, such as he,


young Jew fabled of, in the' Indian Sea, By nothing but its name of Beauty known, And which Queen Fancy might make all her own, Her fairy kingdom-take its people, lands, And tenements into her own bright hands,

And make, at least, one earthly corner fit

For Love to live in, pure and exquisite !


ND is there then no earthly place,

Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some curst, round English face, Popping up near, to break the vision? 'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet ;

Nor highest Alps nor Apennines

Are sacred from Threadneedle Street!

If up the Simplon's path we wind,
Fancying we leave this world behind,

Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear

As-" Baddish news from 'Change, my dearThe Funds-(phew, curse this ugly hill!)— Are low ring fast-(what, higher still?)— And-(zooks, we're mounting up to heaven!)Will soon be down to sixty-seven."

Go where we may-rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still.

The trash of Almack's or Fleet Ditch-
And scarce a pin's head difference which-
Mixes, though ev'n to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon!
And if this rage for travelling lasts,
If Cockneys, of all sects and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
Will leave their puddings and coal fires,
To gape at things in foreign lands
No soul among them understands ;

If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off 'mong the Wahabees ;
If neither sex nor age controls,

Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
Young ladies, with pink parasols,

To glide among the Pyramids-
Why, then, farewell all hope to find
A spot that's free from London-kind !
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue "at home"
Among the Blacks of Carolina--
Or, flying to the Eastward, see
Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea

And toast upon the Wall of China!


VEN here, in this region of wonders, I find
That light-footed Fancy leaves truth far behind;
Or, at least, like Hippomenes, turns her astray
By the golden illusions he flings in her way.

What a glory it seem'd the first evening I gazed!
MONT BLANC, like a vision, then suddenly raised
On the wreck of the sunset-and all his array

Of high-towering Alps, touch'd still with a light
Far holier, purer than that of the Day,

As if nearness to Heaven had made them so bright!
Then the dying, at last, of these splendours away
From peak after peak, till they left but a ray,
One roseate ray, that, too precious to fly,

O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung,
Like the last sunny step of ASTRÆA, when high
From the summit of earth to Elysium she sprung!
And those infinite Alps, stretching out from the sight
Till they mingled with Heaven, now shorn of their light,
Stood lofty, and lifeless, and pale in the sky,
Like the ghosts of a Giant Creation gone by!

That scene I have view'd it this evening again,
By the same brilliant light that hung over it then-
The valley, the lake in their tenderest charms-

MONT BLANC in his awfulest pomp-and the whole,
A bright picture of Beauty, reclined in the arms
Of Sublimity, bridegroom elect of her soul!

But where are the mountains, that round me at first,
One dazzling horizon of miracles, burst?

Those Alps beyond Alps, without end swelling on
Like the waves of eternity-where are they gone?
Clouds-clouds-they were nothing but clouds, after all!
That chain of MONT BLANCS, which my fancy flew o'er,
With a wonder that nought on this earth can recall,
Were but clouds of the evening, and now are no more.


T night, when all is still around,
How sweet to hear the distant sound

Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet

That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say

""Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,

Though still the western clouds are bright;

Oh! happy, too, the silent press,

The eloquence of mute caress,

With those we love exchanged at night!

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