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ST. CECILIA.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

St. Cecilia was a beautiful and accomplished young Roman lady, in the third century, whose music is said to have drawn down a heavenly visitant. Her lover was a heretic, whose conversion, after long and unsuccessful efforts on her part, was efffected, by the assistance of the angel, in one of his visits.

HER hair streams backward,-like a cloud

Before the sun-light of her eyes,

That seem to pierce the fleecy shroud

Of the far, blue, Italian skies!—
Her hands amid the golden strings
Play,-like a spirit's wanderings;
Still making music as they stray,
And scattering incense on their way !—
And softest harpings float around,
That make the chamber hallowed ground;
Till every breeze that wanders by
Seems holy with the maiden's sigh,

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And seraph-forms come stealing down
To hear a music like their own!

Her robe is of the same pure white,
Whose silver skirts yon azure sky ;—
Her form is like a form of light,-
But all the woman dims her eye

With tears that dare to look to heaven,
And griefs that mount-and are forgiven!—
Deep in her warm and holy heart,

Are thoughts that play a mortal part,
And her young worship wafts above
The breathings of an earthly love!

Of earth-yet not a love that flings
One clog upon her spirit's wings;
Or, like a shadow, dimly lies
Upon her pure heart's sacrifice!
-The lark may-like that spirit-play
In the blue heavens, the livelong day,
And He who gave that sunny thing
A mounting-yet a wearying-wing,
Will not refuse its morning flight
Because it stooped to earth by night ;-
Nor shall the maiden's offering rise
Less stainless to her native skies,
Because the youthful saint reveals
The throbbings which the woman feels,
And pours to heaven her worship, fraught

With passion which itself hath taught !

The notes fall fainter on the ear,

Yet, still, the seraph leans to hear;—
Though sorrow sighs along the lyre,

And woman's fears have dimmed her fire;
And breathings meant for God alone,
Echo some pulses of her own!-

The angel stays-and stays to bless
Love-which, itself, is holiness!

WELLINGTON.

BY THE LATE REV. C. R. MATURIN.

Son of proud sires,-whose patriot blood
Sent to thy heart its purest flood !-
Son of the isle where souls of fire
The natives' glowing breasts inspire !—
What land-what language may not raise
Its tribute to thy deathless praise ?
-Where India's burning day-stars shed
Their fervors o'er the fainting head-

Climes where the wondrous bower-tree weaves
Its shadowy wilderness of leaves ;-
Where purple peak, and mountain brow,
Warm with Elysian colouring glow,
And sparkling cliff's pavilioned height
Seems diamonded with fairy light ;—
Where wakes the war's discordant yell,
With deafening gong and tambour-knell,
And armed tower and curtained tent
Nod on the castled elephant;

And silken bands-in barbarous pride-
Troop by the turbaned Rajah's side ;-
-Where Spain, amid her orange bowers,
Wasted her wild romantic hours,

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