LOVELY spirit, where dost thou fly,
With such impatience in thine eye?—
Behold the hues of the closing day
Are mingled still with the gloaming gray ;
And thine own sweet star of the welkin sheen,
The star of love, is but faintly seen!
See how she hangs like a diamond dim
By the walks of the holy Seraphim,
While the fays in the middle vales of blue
Have but half distilled their freight of dew.
It is too early in the night
For a spirit so lovely and so bright
To be tracing the walks of this world beneath,
Unhallowed by sin, and mildewed by death;
Where madness and folly are ever rife,
And snares that beleaguer mortal life.-
I know thee well, sweet Spirit of Love,
And I know thy mission from above;
Thou comest with every grace refined,
To endow the earthly virgin's mind;
A record of her virtues to keep,
And all her thoughts awake and asleep.
Bright spirit, thou hast a charge of care!
Come tarry with me in this woodland fair,
I will teach thee more in one hour of joy
Than all thou hast learned since thou left'st the sky.
Come tarry with me, let the maidens be,
Till the hour of dreaming and phantasy;
And then will I seek with thee to share
The task of fanning their foreheads fair,
And scaring the little fays of sin
That tickle the downy, dimpling chin;
That prank with the damask vein of the cheek,
And whisper words it were wrong to speak.
From all these foes thy wards shall be free,
If thou wilt go woo in the wood with me;
Till yon twin stars hang balanced even,
Like ear-rings on the cheeks of heaven!
And who art thou, that with shameless brow,
Darest here such license to avow?
If aright I judge from what I've heard,
This courtesy might well be spared;
For of all the spirits beneath the sun
Thou art the one I most would shun!
Art thou not he of guardian fame,
That watchest over the sex supreme?
Say, spirit, was the charge not given
To thee, before the throne of heaven,
To guard the youth of this vale from sin,
From follies without and foibles within?
If so, thou hast honour of thy trade!
A glorious guardian hast thou made!
To the dole and the danger of mine and me,-
My malison light on it and thee!
Go woo with thee!-by this heavenly mind,
I had rather go woo with a mortal hind!
Sweet spirit! sure thou could'st never opine
That my charge could be as pure as thine?
Something for sex thou should'st allow ;
Yet have I done what spirit might do,
And more will I still, if thou wilt go rest
With me on the wild thyme's fragrant breast,
By form of an angel never prest!
I will spread thee a couch of the violet blue,
Of our own heaven's cerulean hue;
The sweetest flowers shall round thee be strewed,
And I'll pillow thy head on the gossamer's shroud;
And there, 'neath the green leaves closely furled,
I will cool thy cheek with the dew of the world;
I will bind thy locks with the sweet wood-reef,
And fan thy brow with the wabron leaf;
I will press thy heaving heart to mine,
And try to mix with our love divine
An earthly joy, a mortal bliss;
I will woo thee and woo thee for a kiss,
As a thing above all gifts to prize,
And I'll swear 't is the odour of Paradise!
In earthly love, when ardent and chaste,
There's a joy which angels scarce may taste:
Then come to the bower I have framed for thee;
We'll let the youth of the vale go free,
And this eve shall be Love's JUBILEE!
I will not, I dare not such hazard run,
My virgin race may be all undone.
The breeze is chill,-it is wearing late,
Away, thou guardian profligate!
Sweet spirit! why that quivering lip,
Which an angel of light might love to sip?
And why doth thy radiance come and go,
Like the hues of thine own celestial bow?
And why dost thou look to the ground and sigh,
And away from the green-wood turn thine eye?
Are these the symptoms, may I divine,
Of an earthly love, and is it mine?
Ah, no! it is something about my head,
Some qualm of languor or of dread.
That breeze is surely in a glow,
And yet it is chill-what shall I do?
Wilt thou not go?-ah! haste away
Unto thy charge; thou art worse than they.
I will not, cannot leave thee so;
I must woo thee whether thou wilt or no;
Let us hide from the star-beam and the gale,—
Why dost thou tremble and look so pale?
Oh, my dear maidens of beauty so bright,
What will become of you all to-night!
For I fear me this eve of wizard spell,
May be by shade, by bower, and dell,
An eve to dream of-not to tell!
I will charge the little elves of sin
To keep their silken cells within,—
In the night-flower's breast, the witch-bell blue,
Or wrapt in the daisy's silver flue;
And not to warp, on any pretence,
The thoughts or the dreams of innocence.
There shall not one of them dare to sip
The dew of love from the fervid lip,
Till the sleeping virgin, pale and wan,
Shrink back, as if from the kiss of man.
There shall no elfin, unreproved,
Take the dear form of the youth beloved;
Or whisper of love within the ear
A word for maiden unmeet to hear.
From man's deep wiles thy sex I'll guard,
If a smile from thine eye be my reward;
For all beside we must let them be,
And this eve shall be Love'S JUBILEE!
The guardian angel of virgin fame,
In one sweet dale which I may not name,
Was won for that dear eve, to prove
The thrilling enjoyments of earthly love:
And if by matron the truth was said,
There was ne'er such an eve since the stars were made,
For young delight, and for moments bright,
And all that could virtuous love requite;
For all was holy, and pure, and chaste,
As the angels that wooed in their home of rest.
The welkin glowed with a rosy blue,
And its star of love had a brighter hue;
The green-wood strains with joy were rife,
And its breeze was a balm of heavenly life.
Ay, 't was an eve-by bower and dell-
An eve to dream of-not to tell :
For ever hallowed may it be,
That eve of LOVE'S HIGH JUBILEE!
Literary Souvenir.
O painted clouds! sweet beauties of the sky!
How have I viewed your motion and your rest,
When like fleet hunters ye have left mine eye,
In your thin gauze of woolly-fleecing drest;
Or in your threatened thunder's grave black vest,
Like black deep waters slowly moving by,
Awfully striking the spectator's breast
With your Creator's dread sublimity,
As admiration mutely views your storms.
And I do love to see you idly lie,
Painted by heaven as various as your forms,
Pausing upon an eastern mountain high.
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