Their only punishment, (as wrong,

However sweet, must bear its brand,) Their only doom was this-that, long

As the green earth and ocean stand, They both shall wander here—the same, Throughout all time, in heart and frameStill looking to that goal sublime,

Whose light remote, but sure, they see;
Pilgrims of Love, whose way is Time,

Whose home is in Eternity!
Subject, the while, to all the strife,
True Love encounters in this life-
The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain ;
The chill, that turns his warmest sighs
To earthly vapour, ere they rise;
The doubt he feeds on, and the pain
That in his very sweetness lies:-
Still worse, the' illusions that betray

His footsteps to their shining brink;
That tempt him, on his desert way

Through the bleak world, to bend and drink, Where nothing meets his lips, alas,— But he again must sighing pass On to that far-off home of peace, In which alone his thirst will cease.

All this they bear, but, not the less,
Have moments rich in happiness—
Blest meetings, after many a day
Of widowhood past far away,
When the lov'd face again is seen
Close, close, with not a tear between.
Confidings frank, without control,
Pour'd mutually from soul to soul;
As free from any fear or doubt

As is that light from chill or stain,
The sun into the stars sheds out,

To be by them shed back again!— That happy minglement of hearts, Where, chang'd as chymic compounds are, Each with its own existence parts,

To find a new one, happier far!

et qui vont aboutir à la Beauté, sont chargés d'un grand nombre d'Anges. Il y en a trente-cinq sur le canal de la Miséricorde, qui recompensent et qui couronnent la vertu des Saints," &c. &c. For a concise account of the Cabalistic Philosophy, see Enfield's very useful compendium of Brucker.

Such are their joys—and, crowning all,
That blessed hope of the bright hour,
When, happy and no more to fall,

Their spirits shall, with freshen'd power, Rise up rewarded for their trust

In Him, from whom all goodness springs, And, shaking off earth's soiling dust

From their emancipated wings, Wander for ever through those skies Of radiance, where Love never dies!

In what lone region of the earth

These Pilgrims now may roam or dwell,
God and the Angels, who look forth
To watch their steps, alone can tell.
But should we, in our wanderings,

Meet a young pair, whose beauty wants
But the adornment of bright wings,

To look like heaven's inhabitants-
Who shine where'er they tread, and yet
Are humble in their earthly lot,
As is the way-side violet,

That shines unseen, and were it not
For its sweet breath would be forgot-
Whose hearts, in every thought, are one,
Whose voices utter the same wills-
Answering, as Echo doth some tone
Of fairy music 'mong the hills,

So like itself, we seek in vain
Which is the echo, which the strain-
Whose piety is love, whose love,

Though close as 'twere their souls' embrace,

Is not of earth, but from above

Like two fair mirrors, face to face, Whose light, from one to the' other thrown, Is heaven's reflection, not their ownShould we e'er meet with aught so pure, So perfect here, we may be sure

'Tis ZARAPH and his bride we see; And call young lovers round, to view The pilgrim pair, as they pursue

Their pathway towards eternity.

"On les représente quelquefois sous la figure d'un arbre ... l'Ensoph qu'on met au-dessus de l'arbre Sephirotique ou des Splendeurs divins, est l'Infini,” — L'Histoire des Juifs, liv. ix. 11.

But soon the ruby tide runs short,

Each minute makes the sad truth plainer, Till life, like old and crusty port,

When near its close, requires a strainer.

This friendship can alone confer,

Alone can teach the drops to pass, If not as bright as once they were, At least unclouded, through the glass.

Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine,

Of which this heart were fonder, vainer, Than thus, if life grow like old wine,

To have thy friendship for its strainer.

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

HERE lies Factotum Ned at last;
Long as he breath'd the vital air,
Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd,
In which Ned hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out,

Whatever statesmen did or said,

If not exactly brought about,

'Twas all, at least, contriv'd by Ned.

With NAP, if Russia went to war,

"Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar(Vide his pamphlet-price, sixpence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo

As all but Frenchmen think she wasTo Ned, as Wellington well knew,

Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news- no envoy's bag
E'er pass'd so many secrets through it;
Scarcely a telegraph could wag

Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in!
From Russia, chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland, owskis by the dozen.

When George, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd-who advis'd the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.

For though, by some unlucky miss,

He had not downwright seen the King,

He sent such hints through Viscount This, To Marquis That, as clench'd the thing.

The same it was in science, arts,

The Drama, Books, MS. and printedKean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read,

And, here and there, infus'd some soul in't— Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned, Had-odd enough—an awkward hole in't.

'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer, Whatever was the best pye going,

In that Ned-trust him-had his finger.

WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?

ΤΟ

WHAT shall I sing thee? Shall I tell
Of that bright hour, remember'd well
As though it shone but yesterday,
When, loitering idly in the ray
Of a spring-sun, I heard, o'erhead,
My name as by some spirit said,
And, looking up, saw two bright eyes
Above me from a casement shine,
Dazzling my mind with such surprise

As they, who sail beyond the Line,
Feel when new stars above them rise; -
And it was thine, the voice that spoke,
Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then;
And thine the eye, whose lustre broke—
Never to be forgot again!

What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave
A song of that sweet summer-eve,
(Summer, of which the sunniest part
Was that we, each, had in the heart,)
When thou and I, and one like thee,
In life and beauty, to the sound
Of our own breathless minstrelsy,

Danc'd till the sunlight faded round,
Ourselves the whole ideal Ball,
Lights, music, company, and all!
Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain

Of lute like mine, whose day is past, To call up even a dream again

Of the fresh light those moments cast.

SCEPTICISM.

ERE Psyche drank the cup, that shed
Immortal Life into her soul,
Some evil spirit pour'd, 'tis said,

One drop of Doubt into the bowl

Which, mingling darkly with the stream, To Psyche's lips-she knew not whyMade even that blessed nectar seem

As though its sweetness soon would die.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"COME, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life,

"There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake

"It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife”— "Why, so it is, father-whose wife shall I take?"

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

PURE as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood
By JORDAN's stream, descended from the sky,
Is that remembrance, which the wise and good
Leave in the hearts that love them, when they
die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be,
Bequeath'd, in dying, to our souls by thee-
So shall the love we bore thee, cherish'd warm
Within our souls through grief, and pain, and
strife,

Be, like ELISHA's cruise, a holy charm,

Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

Brighton, June, 1825. THIS life, dear Corry, who can doubt?— Resembles much friend Ewart's wine, When first the rosy drops come out,

How beautiful, how clear they shine!

And thus awhile they keep their tint,

So free from even a shade with some, That they would smile, did you but hint, That darker drops would ever come.

1 A wine-merchant.

A

song of that sweet summer-eve, (Summer, of which the sunniest part Was that we, each, had in the heart,) When thou and I, and one like thee, In life and beauty, to the sound Of our own breathless minstrelsy,

Danc'd till the sunlight faded round, Ourselves the whole ideal Ball, Lights, music, company, and all! Oh, 'tis not in the languid strain Of lute like mine, whose day is past,

To call up even a dream again

Of the fresh light those moments cast.