To be the theme of every hour
The heart devotes to Fancy's power,
When her prompt magic fills the mind
With friends and joys we've left behind,
And joys return and friends are near,
And all are welcomed with a tear :-
In the mind's purest seat to dwell,
To be remember'd oft and well

By one whose heart, though vain and wild,
By passion led, by youth beguiled,

Can proudly still aspire to be

All that may yet win smiles from thee:

If thus to live in every part
Of a lone, weary wanderer's heart;
If thus to be its sole employ

Can give thee one faint gleam of joy,
Believe it, Mary,-oh! believe
A tongue that never can deceive,
Though, erring, it too oft betray

Ev'n more than Love should dare to say,-
In Pleasure's dream or Sorrow's hour,
In crowded hall or lonely bower,
The business of my life shall be,
For ever to remember thee.

And though that heart be dead to mine, Since Love is life, and wakes not thine, I'll take thy image, as the form

Of one whom Love had fail'd to warm,
Which, though it yield no answering thrill,
Is not less dear, is worshipp'd still—
I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray,
The bright, cold burden of my way.
To keep this semblance fresh in bloom,
My heart shall be its lasting tomb,
And Memory, with embalming care,
Shall keep it fresh and fadeless there.

THE

GENIUS OF HARMONY.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

Ad harmoniam canere mundum.

CICERO de Nat. Deor., lib. iii.

THERE lies a shell beneath the waves,
In many a hollow winding wreathed,
Such as of old

Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;
This magic shell,

From the white bosom of a syren fell,

As once she wander'd by the tide that laves
Sicilia's sands of gold.

It bears

Upon its shining side the mystic notes,
Of those entrancing airs,"

The genii of the deep were wont to swell,
When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music

roll'd!

Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats;
And, if the power

Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,

Go, bring the bright shell to my bower, And I will fold thee in such downy dreams As lap the Spirit of the Seventh Sphere, When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear!1 And thou shalt own,

That, through the circle of creation's zone,
Where matter slumbers or where spirit beams;

From the pellucid tides," that whirl
The planets through their maze of song,
To the small rill, that weeps along
Murmuring o'er beds of pearl;

From the rich sigh

Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky," To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields

On Afric's burning fields;18

Thou'lt wondering own this universe divine Is mine!

That I respire in all and all in me,

One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony.

Welcome, welcome, mystic shell!
Many a star has ceased to burn,19
Many a tear has Saturn's urn

O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept,20
Since thy aerial spell

Hath in the waters slept.

Now blest I'll fly

With the bright treasure to my choral sky
Where she, who waked its early swell,
The Syren of the heavenly choir,

Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre;"
Or guides around the burning pole

The winged chariot of some blissful soul;a2
While thou-

Oh son of earth, what dreams shall rise for thee!
Beneath Hispania's sun,

Thou'lt see a streamlet run,

Which I've imbued with breathing melody;" And there, when night-winds down the current die, Thou'lt hear how like a harp its waters sigh: A liquid chord is every wave that flows, An airy plectrum every breeze that blows.24

By the great diadem that twines my hair,
And by the seven gems that sparkle there,"
Mingling their beams

In a soft iris of harmonious light,

Oh, mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams.

I FOUND her not-the chamber seem'd Like some divinely haunted place, Where fairy forms had lately beam'd, And left behind their odorous trace!

It felt, as if her lips had shed
A sigh around her, ere she fled,
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
When all the silver chords are mute,
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note's luxurious death,
A shade of song, a spirit air
Of melodies which had been there.

I saw the veil, which, all the day,

Had floated o'er her cheek of rose;
I saw the couch, where late she lay
In languor of divine repose;
And I could trace the hallow'd print

Her limbs had left, as pure and warm
As if 'twere done in rapture's mint,

And Love himself had stamp'd the form.

Oh my sweet mistress, where wert thou?
In pity fly not thus from me;
Thou art my life, my essence now,
And my soul dies of wanting thee.

TO

MRS. HENRY TIGHE,

ON READING HER "PSYCHE."

TELL me the witching tale again, For never has my heart or ear Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain,

So pure to feel, so sweet to hear.

Say, Love, in all thy prime of fame, When the high heaven itself was thine,

When piety confess'd the flame,

And even thy errors were divine;