And oh how happy wilt thou be,

If thou, while thus with vows deceiving, Hast half the bliss that flows to me,

While hearing thee, and while believing.

THE

I V Y-SEAT.

Tamen ego illa moveor exedra........a sedeque ipsa desidera ri

illam vocem puto. CICERO, Lib. v. de Finibus. Proem.

An what may be the secret spell
That bids my heart so fondly swell

Whene'er I pass that ivy-seat!
While lingers my reverted eye
About those beeches, wherefore fly
The life-drops through my frame with quickening

beat?

Is not that seat like others made,
With moss like others overlaid,

Lik: others fenced with ivy round?
Are not chose trees like other trees?
Or, when it fans them, does the breeze,

Pour through their branches an unusual sound?

Yes....Other seats like that I've seen
Girt with a tangled ivy-skreen,

Their crooked arms with ivy bound;
Those beeches are like other trees,
And, as it passes by, the breeze

Pours through their branches no unusual sound.

Then wherefore, when I pass that seat,
Throbs every pulse with quickening beat?

Why is my hand upon my heart?
Why do I watch with eager gaze
The trembling of those beechen sprays?

Why linger here, unwilling to depart?

There is a maid, a gentle maid,
A dweller in the woodland shade,

Who loves that seat with ivy bound:
Her arm has many a time reclined
Upon that branch so intertwined

With tangled wreaths, and stems that curl around.

And once, it was a pleasant day,
The sweetest of a jocund May,

And thousand blossoms bloomed the while
When, on that ivy-seat reclined,
To peace and softness all my mind

I rendered up, most happy in her smile.

Then, as the gentle maid stood near
And bent on me her looks, then clear

The blackbird sung; perched on a spray
Of yon tall beech he sweetly sung;
The maid with mute attention hung

On every note that sounded in his lay.

And that sweet warbling, in her face
Called up a new and lively grace,

That warbling moulded every look ;
And feelings born of sound bid rise
Soft radiance in her kindlinr eyes,

And all her frame witi sweet emotion shook.

Then in each feature I could see
The workings of that sympathy,

The silent joy that o'er her stole.
Then still I sat, no word I spoke,
No sound or motion from me broke

That might disturb the quiet of lier soul.

And when the bird had sung his lay,
He left the beech's topmost spray,

And as he flew he chattered shrill;
Yet still her eyes the maiden raised
To yon tall beech, yet still she gazed

As though the bird sat there and warbled still.

Smiling, her rosy lips she stirred,
As though she whispered; yet no word

Could I perceive, or whispered speech;
And when at length I softly spoke,
My voice her trance of pleasure broke,

And then her eyes she turned from yon tall beech.

And oh, the look! when from that tree
At length she turned her eyes on me!

That look may never pass away ;
E'en now it works upon my inind,
And in its magic I shall find

Subject and food for many a future day.

Therefore though many a silent nook
Among the hazels by the brook,

In dingle or sequestered grove;
Though many a grot and silent dell
I know, where mossy couches swell,

Oh, far beyond them all, that seat I love.

When there I sit, some secret power
Keeps me fast chained from hour to hour;

I cannot tear myself away;
When I would rise, some winning thought,
With force of subtlest magic fraught,

Fixes me down, and holds me with its sway.