Still mute? Then, ye bright witnesses above,
But chief, O Star of Eve! Venus,—whate'er
Thy worshippers do name thee -Star of Love!
Thy conscious beams the sacred spot declare:
A breathless quiet filled the twilight air,

A tremulous lustre from thy pale lamp given
Lit the dim scene, while fell in fragrance there,
Soft as the tears of love, the dews of even,

Holy as drops that seal the christian babe for heaven!

And, all within that bower of peace and bliss,
There sat two youthful forms; one whose bright eyes
Gazed on the other's, half withdrawn from his,
Yet swimming in such silent joy as lies
On a calm sea beneath the sunny skies;
While, resting on his shoulder, one white arm
Propped a fair cheek, where breathed unchidden sighs,
O'er loveliness, that, innocent though warm,

At once even Love could fire, and Passion's self dis

arm.

And there beat two young bosoms, whose twin sighs, Blending, to heaven the same pure wishes bore; And there met mutual and confiding eyes,

Whose soft looks told but what each read before; And there were whispering warm lips o'er and o'er The same sweet vow: what need of words have they, Whose eyes are learned in a deeper lore?

Whose hearts can throb-whose very lips can say All, with one touch, that words could utter in a

day?

O pleasant time of youth! when the bright flowers
Of love and hope around the young heart fling
Their sweetness and their beauty; the warm showers
That passion weeps, their genial watering;
And sighs, the zephyrs that on perfumed wing
Around them wave; and some bright beaming eye,
The worshipped star to whose warm smile they cling,
And bend-sun-flowers of the heart-that die,
When fades the light of their most fond idolatry!

But there are bosoms in whose burning clime
The dews are poison and the sighs fierce flame;
And there these flowers in their too early prime
Die witheringly, or perish as they came,
In rapid fall; yet fadeth not their name,
Nor freshens o'er again the blighted spot
Upon the heart-years pass, and still the same,
No spring recalls from their untimely lot,

No tears bedew their grave, yet they are not forgot!

But who would for a beauteous shadow leave
The rich reality? the sunny light

Of a warm smile for aught the mind can weave,
In its inspired hour, of fair and bright?
Like that harmonious dreamer, if aright
The tale be told, who on his Laura's face
Star-gazed with such poetical delight,
He did not dare undeify the grace

He worshipt with love's warm unspiritual embrace.

Oh, 'tis no dream of Fancy that doth give
Its brightness and its beauty to the hour
Of youthful love; then only do we live,
When the awakened heart, like a spring flower,
Starts from its icy slumber at the power

Of the enchanter Time, to make or find

All things instinct with beauty: but when lower
Those wintry clouds that darken o'er the mind,
And fades the light of Love, 'tis all indeed a dream
behind!

The strain died slowly like a beautiful dream, stealing away from the eyes of an unwilling slumberer. The Poet appeared to listen long after the echo of the music had ceased in the hall-though still it sighed through the inmost recesses of his trembling bosom. The days of other years crowded on his soul. He loved and was beloved again. The vow of eternal truth was on his tongue and in his heart! At length, starting from his reverie, he raised his glistening eyes, but the Spirit of Love had vanished; a dead silence reigned around; and he found himself alone and motionless- not in the Temple of Romance, but reclined on the green bank, where all the while he had lain in a profound sleep! The gorgeous vision had fled. It was nearly dark; a cloud covered the face of the moon; and by the doubtful light he could perceive the sea sleeping near him as before, in beauty and in silence.