A VALENTINE.

OR her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.

Search narrowly the lines!-they hold a treasure

Divine-a talisman-an amulet

That must be worn at heart.

Search well the measure-

The words-the syllables! Do not forget

The trivialest point, or you may lose your labour!

And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

Which one might not undo without a sabre,

If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes' scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets-as the name is a poet's, too.

Its letters, although naturally lying

Like the knight Pinto-Mendez Ferdinando

Still form a synonym for Truth.--Cease trying!

You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do.

[To translate the address, read the first letter of the first line in connexion with the second letter of the second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth, and so on to the end. The name will thus appear.]

TYPE of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time

By buried centuries of pomp and power!

At length-at length-after so many days

Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,

Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now- -I feel ye in your strength-
O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane !

O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!

Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,

Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,

Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,

The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—

These mouldering plinths-these sad and blackened shafts

These vague entablatures this crumbling frieze

These shattered cornices-this wreek-this ruin

These stones-alas! these grey stones-are they all—

All of the famed and the colossal left

By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?