TO JESSY.

BY LORD BYRON.

THERE is a mystic thread of life

So dearly wreathed with mine alone, That Destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both or none.

There is a form on which these eyes
Have often gazed with fond delight;
By day that form their joy supplies,
And dreams restore it through the night.

There is a voice whose tones inspire

Such thrills of rapture through my breast,

I would not hear a seraph choir

Unless that voice could join the rest.

There is a face whose blushes tell

Affection's tale upon the cheek;

But pallid at one fond farewell,

Proclaims more love than words can speak.

There is a lip which mine hath prest,
And none had ever prest before,

It vowed to make me sweetly blest,
That mine might only press it more.

There is a bosom-all my own

Hath pillowed oft this aching head;

A mouth that smiles on me alone,

An eye whose tears with mine are shed.

There are two hearts whose movements thrill

In unison so closely sweet,

That, pulse to pulse responsive still,

They both must heave-or cease to beat.

There are two souls whose equal flow,

In gentle streams so calmly run,

That when they part-They part?—Ah, no!
They cannot part!-Those souls are one!
Literary Panorama.

THE NYMPH OF THE STREAM.

BY MRS. HUNTER.

NYMPH of the mountain-stream, thy foaming urn
Wastes its pure waters on the rock below;
There no green herbage shall a leaf return,

No plant can flourish and no flower can blow ;—
Stern Solitude, whose frown the heart appals,
Dwells on the heath-clad hills around thy waterfalls.

Yet not in vain thy murmuring fountain flows,—
It cheers the wanderer in the dreary waste,
Awakes dull Silence from her deep repose,

And charms the eye, the ear, the soul, of taste;-
For this the grateful muse in fancy twines
Around thy urn, the rose and waving wild woodbines.

And when far distant from the glowing scene

Of castles, winding straths, and tufted woods, From Lomond's fairy banks, and islands green, His cloud-capt mountains, and his silver floods, Memory shall turn in many a waking dream,

To meet thee, lonely Nymph! beside thy mountain-stream. English Minstrelsy.

ITALY.

A FRAGMENT.

EARTH'S loveliest land, I behold thee in dreams,
All gay in the summer, and drest in sun-beams,
In the radiance which breaks on the purified sense
Of the thin-bodied ghosts, that are flitting from hence.
The blue distant Alps, and the blue distant main,
Bound the far varied harvests of Lombardy's plain;
The rivers are winding in blue gleaming lines,
Round the ruins of old, round the hill of the vines,-
Round the grove of the orange-the green myrtle bower,
By castle and convent-by town and by tower.

Through the bright summer azure, the north breezes flow,
That are cooled in their flight over regions of snow;
Or westerly gales, on whose wandering wings,
The wave of the ocean its silver dew flings.
Bright-bright is the prospect, and teeming the soil,
With the blessings of promise-with corn, wine, and oil;
Where the cypress and myrtle, and orange combine,
And around the dark olive gay wantons the vine.
Woods leafy and rustling, o'ershadow the scene,
With their forests of branches, and changes of green;
And glossy their greenness, where sunshine is glistening,
And mellow their music, where SILENCE is listening;
And the streamlets glide through them with glassier hue,
And the sky sparkles o'er them with heavenlier blue.
How deep and how rich is the blush of the rose,
That spreading and wild o'er the wilderness grows !—
What waftures of incense are filling the air,
For the bloom of a summer unbounded is there!

The soft and voluptuous spirit of love,

Rules in earth and in ether-below and above!—
In the blue of the sky-in the glow of the beam,
In the sigh of the wind, and the flow of the stream!

At his presence the rose takes a ruddier bloom,
And the vine-bud exhales a more wanton perfume;
Even the hoarse surging billows have softened their roar,
And break with a musical fall on the shore.

Blackwood's Magazine.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF NAPLES.

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent light
Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight—
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,

The city's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple sea-weeds strown;

I see the waves upon the shore,

Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown;

I sit upon the sands alone,

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean

Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion:

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,

Nor peace within, nor calm around,

Nor that content surpassing wealth,

The sage in meditation found,

And walked with inward glory crowned-
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure:
Others I see whom these surround-

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;

To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild,

Even as the winds and waters are;

I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away this life of care

Which I have borne and yet must bear,
Till death, like sleep, might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;

They might lament-for I am one

Whom men love not, and yet regret,

Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,

Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

INSCRIPTION

ON A NATURAL GROTTO, NEAR A DEEP STREAM.

HEALTH, rose-lipped cherub, haunts this spot:
She slumbers oft in yonder nook;

If in the shade you trace her not,

Plunge and you'll find her in the brook!