ON A BEAUTIFUL EAST-INDIAN.

If all the daughters of the sun

Have loving looks and hearts of flame, Go, tell me not that she is one

'Twas from the wintry moon she came!

And yet, sweet eye! thou ne'er wert given
To kindle what thou dost not feel;
And yet, thou flushing lip-by Heaven!
Thou ne'er wert made for Dian's seal!

Oh! for a sunbeam, rich and warm
From thy own Ganges' fervid haunts,
To light thee up, thou lovely form!
To all my soul adores and wants :

To see thee burn-to faint and sigh
Upon that bosom as it blazed,
And be, myself, the first to die,

Amid the flame myself had raised!

ΤΟ

I KNOW that none can smile like thee,
But there is one, a gentler one,

Whose heart, though young and wild it be,
Would ne'er have done as thine has done.

When we were left alone to-day,

When every curious eye was fled, And all that love could look or say,

We might have look'd, we might have said :

Would she have felt me trembling press,
Nor trembling press to me again?
Would she have had the power to bless,
Yet want the heart to bless me then?

Her tresses, too, as soft as thine-
Would she have idly paused to twine
Their scatter'd locks, with cold delay,
While, oh! such minutes pass'd away,
As Heaven has made for those who love?
For those who love, and long to steal
What none but hearts of ice reprove,

What none but hearts of fire can feel!

Go, go-an age of vulgar years

May now be pined, be sigh'd away, Before one blessed hour appears,

Like that which we have lost to-day!

AT NIGHT.*

Ar night, when all is still around,
How sweet to hear the distant sound

Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet

That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say
" "Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,
Though still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy too the silent press,

The eloquence of mute caress,

With those we love exchanged at night!

* These lines allude to a curious lamp, which has for its device a Cupid, with the words "at night" written over him.

At night, what dear employ to trace,
In fancy, every glowing grace

That's hid by darkness from the sight!
And guess, by every broken sigh,
What tales of bliss the shrouded eye
Is telling from the soul, at night!

ΤΟ

I OFTEN wish that thou wert dead,
And I beside thee calmly sleeping;
Since love is o'er and passion fled,

And life has nothing worth our keeping!

No-common souls may bear decline

Of all that throbb'd them once so high; But hearts that beat like thine and mine, Must still love on-love on or die!

'Tis true, our early joy was such,

That nature could not bear th' excess! It was too much-for life too much

Though life be all a blank with less!

To see that eye, so cold, so still,

Which once, oh God! could melt in bliss

No, no, I cannot bear the chill!

Hate, burning hate were Heaven to this!

END OF VOLUME II.