As are those eyes, whose gentle light
Thy features now so softly wear.

Lady, I love thee, for thou art

The bride of him to whom my heart—” She paused and turned aside-a tear Flowed from her eye-"O! I am weak, Forgive me, but I cannot speak

Of him who is to thee so dear;

To whom I owe my honour, life;
Who fought so nobly at the strife,—
The mortal strife of Templestowe,—
For a poor Jewish maiden, whom
All other men left to her doom,
As if she were of man the foe.

My blessing on him-fare thee well;
Long in my heart thy form shall dwell
Enshrined; and when I think of thee,
Joyful shall be the tears I shed,
That Heaven has poured upon thy head
Its richest gifts.-Lady, thou'lt see

My face no more; I go away
To other lands-men shall not say,
That the poor Jewess lives a slave!
No, my despised, degraded race
In this fair land can have no place.
Yet, though the darkly-rolling wave

Divide us while we live on earth,
We meet again;-my lowly birth,

The scorn which all have freely given
As if it were my birth-right here,

Are nought;-my humble, fervent prayer

The God of Israel shall hear; we meet in Heaven.

PAINTING-A PERSONIFICATION.

One bright sunshiny autumn day,

When the leaves were just beginning to fade,

I saw a gay and laughing maid

Stand by the side of a public way.

There she stood erect and tall;

Her flowery cheek had caught the dyes
Of the earliest dawn-and O! her eyes,
Not a star that shoots or flies,

But those dark eyes outshine them all.

She stood with a long and slender wand,
With a tassel of hair at its pointed tip;
And fast as the dews from a forest drip,
When a summer shower has bathed the land,
So quick a thousand colours came,
Darting along like shapes of flame,
At every turn of her gliding hand.

She gave a form to the bodiless air,
And clear as a mirrored sheet it lay;
And phantoms would come and pass away,
As her magical rod was pointed there.

First, the shape of a budding rose,
Just unfolding its tender leaf;
Then, all unbound its virgin zone,
Full in its pride and beauty blown,
It heavily hangs like a nodding sheaf;
And a cloud of perfume around it flows.

Then a mingling of vale and hill,
Hung around with a woody screen-
O! how alive its quivering green;
And there a babbling brook is seen
To turn the wheel of a moss-grown mill:
There is a clear and glassy pool,
And a boy lies idly along its brink,
And he drops a pebble to see it sink
Down in that depth, so calm and cool;
And out from behind a bowering tree
There peeps a maiden crowned with flowers;
The two are innocent paramours—
At her delicate laugh he turns to see,
And then she darts like a frighted fawn
That springs away from the turfy lawn,
And far in the tangled thicket cowers-
So she flies in her haste to hide

The blush that mantles her cheek and brow;

Then he languidly turns his eye aside
To the quiet brook's eternal flow.

There
you may see a warrior horse,
All his trappings are dropped with gold-
How his eye sparkles! and O! how bold,
As he springs away in his pride and force.
There a dark and keen-eyed Moor
Hangs and pulls at his bridle rein,
But all his skill and might are vain ;
He prances and tosses-and hark! away,
Bright as the flashing steeds of day,

He has broke from his keeper, and flings his mane,

Like a streaming meteor, over the plain.

Can you not see the creature neigh,

In his vapoury nostrils panting wide,
In his tossing head and his arch of pride,
And his rapid glance from side to side,
As he stands and beats the echoing ground
With quivering tramp, and sudden bound?
Then with a tremble in every limb,
And an angry snort he darts away,
And round in a circle he seems to swim,
Or bends and turns like a lamb at play.

What is that comes from a golden cloud,
Floating along in thinnest air—
Was there ever a shape so fine and fair?
And O! what wealth of sunny hair
Clings around like a glittering shroud—

See! she raises a snowy arm,

Pure as a flake, ere it leaves the sky

She waves it around with a grace and a charm,
And putting her glossy ringlets by,

Shows to the sight a lip and eye;—
Is it a shape of light and air,

A vermeil cloud, and a midnight star,
That meet and mingle in glory there,
Or one of the winged spirits that fly
Like the prophet who rose in his fiery car?
No, 't is a being of human mould,
Changing with blush, and tear, and smile,
Such as the bard in his lonely isle,
Close to his heart would love to fold.
Back she throws her tossing curls,
Cheek, and brow, and neck are bare,
Tenderly crimson and purely fair,
Like a damask rose when it first unfurls
Its feathery bosom to light and air.
Now that world of grace is calm,

Sweeter and dearer, but not so bright,

Like a flower when it sends the dew of night

Back from its breast in a cloud of balm.
See on her lids the gathering tear,

Clear as a star in the midnight main,

Such she might drop on her mother's bier,

Or shed for the youth who has long been dear, When she parts and never may meet again— O! what flashes of glory break

From that crystalline fount of love and joy;