Were catching upon wave and tree
The arrows from his subtle quiver-
I say a voice has thrill'd me then,

Heard on the still and rushing light,
Or creeping from the silent glen

Like words from the departing night, Hath stricken me, and I have press'd On the wet grass my fever'd brow, And pouring forth the earliest

First prayer, with which I learn'd to bow,
Have felt my mother's spirit rush

Upon me, as in by-past years,
And yielding to the blessed gush
Of my ungovernable tears,
Have risen up-the gay, the wild-
As humble as a very child.

Curtius.

BY MISS LANDON, (L. E. L.)

'HERE is a multitude, in number like

TH

The waves of the wide ocean; and as still As are those waters, when the summer breeze Sleeps on the moveless billow; there is awe On every countenance; and each doth stand In gasping breathlessness, as terror chain'd The life pulse down; or, as they deem'd, a sound Might call down new destruction on their heads.→ The sun look'd smiling from his clear blue throne, And nature seem'd to gladden in the ray; When suddenly a cloud came over heaven, A black and terrible shadow, as the gloom

Curtius.

309

Of the destroying angel's form; the wind
Swept past with hollow murmur; and the birds
Ceasing their song of joyfulness, with mute
And quick and tremulous flight, for shelter sought:
Fear was on every living thing: the earth
Trembled as she presaged some coming ill;
The voice of thunder spake; and in the midst
Of that proud city, in the midst of Rome,
The ground was riven in twain; and, on the spot
Where human steps had but so lately been,
There yawn'd a fearful gulf, dark as the powers
Of hell were gather'd there—no eye might scan
That fathomless abyss. The Augur's voice
Hath told the will of heaven-nought may close
That gulf of terror, till it is the grave

Of all Rome holds most precious. Then speeds
forth

A youthful warrior-"What is dear to Rome,
But patriot valour? Ye infernal gods,

Who now look wrathful from your deep abodes,
Behold your ready sacrifice!" He comes,
Arm'd as for battle, save no plumèd helm
His black hair presses: he is on the steed
Which has so often borne him to the field.-
Young Curtius came, but with a brow as firm,
And cheek unchanged, as he was wont to wear,
When he essay'd the glorious strife of men:
Pride glanced upon his eye-but pride that seem'd
As a remembrance of the higher state

In which aspiring spirits move; whose thoughts

Of avarice, indolence, and selfish care,

The chains of meaner ones have given way
Before the mighty fire of the high soul-
Whose hope is immortality, whose steps
Are steps of flame, on which the many gaze
But dare not follow. He one moment paused,

And cast a farewell look on all around.

How beautiful must be the sky above,
And fair the earth beneath, to him who gives
A lingering look, and knows it is his last!-
Then onward urged his courser.
Hark! a voice,
A wild shriek rings upon the air:

he turn'd,

And his glance fell on her, his own dear love.
She rush'd upon his bosom silently,

As if her life were in that last embrace.
All was so still around, that every sob,

And the heart's throb of agony, were heard.
He clasp'd her, without power to soothe her grief,
But press'd her coral lip-did never flower
Yield fresher incense forth !—and kiss'd away
The tears on her pale cheek, then on her gazed.
All his deep feeling, anguish, high resolves,
And love intense, were in that passionate glance.
He clasp'd her wildly, and his dark eye swam
In tenderness; but he has nerved his soul-
He has spurr'd on-and the dread gulf is closed!

Strain of Music.

BY MRS HEMANS.

"I am never merry when I hear sweet music."-Merchant of Venice.

OH

H, joyously, triumphantly, sweet sounds! ye swell and float,

A breath of hope, of youth, of spring, is pour'd on every note; And yet my full o'erburthen'd heart grows troubled by your

power,

And ye seem to press the long past years into one little hour.

A Strain of Music.

311

If I have look'd on lovely scenes, that now I view no more— A summer sea, with glittering ships, along the mountain shore,

A ruin, girt with solemn woods, and a crimson evening sky, Ye bring me back those images, fast as ye wander by.

If in the happy walks and days of childhood I have heard,
And into childhood's memory link'd the music of a bird;
A bird that with the primrose came, and in the violet's train,
Ye give me that wild melody of early life again.

Or if a dear and gentle voice, that now is changed or gone, Hath left within my bosom deep the thrilling of its tone,

I find that murmur in your notes—they touch the chords of thought,

And a sudden flow of tenderness across my soul is brought.

If I have bid a spot farewell, on whose familiar ground, To every path, and leaf, and flower, my soul in love was bound;

If I have watch'd the parting step of one who came not back, The feeling of that moment wakes in your exulting track.

Yet on ye float !—the very air seems kindling with your glee! Oh, do ye fling this mournful spell, sweet sounds, alone on me?

Or, have a thousand hearts replied, as mine doth now, in sighs,

To the glad music breathing thus of blue Italian skies?

I know not!-only this I know, that not by me on earth, May the deep joy of song be found, untroubled in its birth; It must be for a brighter life, for some immortal sphere, Wherein its flow shall have no taste of the bitter fountains here.