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Maiden of the ruby lip,

Come unto my palace;

Here you shall sweet nectar sip

From a golden chalice.

Beauteous is my world, my sweet, beneath Raadmazah's mountain;

Here is a land of love, dear maid, beneath the sacred fountain.

Thou shalt be my bonnie queen,

Here's thy crown of gold;

Here are robes of shining green,

Never waxing old.

Come, come and be my queen, my love, beneath the crystal fountain ;

Here's a clime of bliss, my sweet, beneath the wondrous mountain.

Ever do the flowers bloom,

In my bonnie world of light;

Here is neither death nor tomb,

Here are known no shades of night.

All is life and love, my sweet, beneath the fairy foun

tain;

Come, come unto my arms fair maid, beneath the sa

cred mountain.

Long I've searched for lady fair,

With such diamond eyes that shine,

And I searched in mad despair

'Till I caught the light of thine.

Leap, leap into my arms, my love, beneath the harmless fountain;

And thou shalt be my queen, my love, beneath the wondrous mountain."

Alas, alas, behold the maid;

A magic spell hath bound her;
A phrenzy now her bosom thrills,
A strange light flashes round her.
And flashes, too, her eyes with pride,

As she leaps within the fatal fountain;
A shriek was heard then all was still-

All silent is the Flatterer's song beneath the haunted mountain.

The sacred fire for days was dim

Within each fane, thus reads the tale ;
And mourning now was deep and long
With all who dwelt in Idrim's vale.

And Khalim's flocks were scattered far
Untended on each hill and plain;
And many a moon kind shepherds searched
Each loved and lost to find, in vain.
At length, upon Raadmazah's steep,
With Zodie's harp all soiled and broken,
They found

poor Khalim cold and dead!
Clutched in his hands love's ruined token.

Full many a year hath fled away –

Yet shepherds of that haunted mountain

Ne'er found again, with all their care,

The genii's wondrous, fatal fountain.

Yet oft they stop and listen to sad, sweet music ringing

Beneath the haunted mount, like a lonely maiden singing;

And the burden of the lay, at every flush of morn

ing,

Is, "Beware the FLATTERER'S wiles, each maid, and by my fate take warning!"

THE POET'S USE OF THE CITY.

BY REV. HENRY BACON.

THERE is poetry in the City, and the true Poet will find it. His use of the City is the spiritual view, and it is as true here as elsewhere, that, "Where there is no vision, the people perish." Not that the visionary has the most life, for he shuns facts rather than interprets them; he does not transcend the present, but puts an ideal in its stead, and cherishes his dreams, rather than the sight seen in his waking state. Such is too often the idea entertained of the Poet. He is described as having no connection with the matter-of-fact world, giving to "airy nothing a local habitation and a name." He is a mere dreamer, to whom the gods have beneficently given genius to compensate for the withholding of common sense. His very costume is thought most unique, and his vices are pitifully to be regarded as infirmities. To suppose he ever gave himself to uses, would be to overturn the common theory of utility that discards poetry as valueless. And yet there are no higher uses to which things can be put than the Poet's uses, for "where there is no vision, the people perish." The ministry of the Poet is to give visions. He is the grand

Interpreter. He neglects no facts, but transcends them. His insight outruns the discernment of less gifted or intense natures. And if the greatness of the Poet lies in that wisest power that enters the depths of the soul's experience, and gives language to emotion, feeling, aspiration, passion, interpreting man to himself, then is the City the place for the great Poet, where the three grand aspects of Nature are not lost sight of the overarching heavens, the rolling sea, and the fitful, swaying, surging and roaring winds; to these elements of the poetic are added, what the country can never give, the fiercest war of the myriad passions possible to Man. No where does Night bend over us more awfully than in the city; no where does the Sea speak with so many and intelligible voices as when it rolls against the shore and adds a hoarse murmur to the hum of the city; and where, amid lowlands or mountains, darkening the hues of the bending grain, or sweeping through the forest, do the Winds come to sound the infinite depths of emotion and mystic feeling as in the city. How like the gathering of a storm, heard in the distance from a plain, does the poet Keats represent the noise of Corinth, where, he says, she

"Throughout her palaces imperial,

And all her populous streets and temples lewd,
Muttered, like tempest in the distance brewed,
To the wide spreaded night above her towers."

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