If Eden claimed a favored haunt, Most hallowed of that blessed ground, Where tempting fiend with guileful taunt A resting-place would ne'er have found,-- As shadowing it well might seek The loveliest home in that fair isle, Which in its radiance seemed to speak As to the charmed doth Beauty's smile, That whispers of a thousand things For which words find no picturings. Like to the gifted Greek who strove To paint a crowning work of art, And form his ideal Queen of Love, By choosing from each grace a part, Blending them in one beauteous whole, To charm the eye, transfix the soul, And hold it in enraptured fires, Such as a dream of heaven inspires,-- So seem the glad waves to have sought From every place its richest treasure, And borne it to that lovely spot, To found thereon a home of pleasure;-- A home where balmy airs might float Through spicy bower and orange grove; Where bright-winged birds might turn the note Which tells of pure and constant love; Where earthquake stay its demon force, And hurricane its wrathful course; Where nymph and fairy find a home, And foot of spoiler never come. * * * * * And Oge stands mid this array Of matchless beauty, but his brow Is brightened not by pleasure's play; He stands unmoved--nay, saddened now, As doth the lorn and mateless bird That constant mourns, whilst all unheard, The breezes freighted with the strains Of other songsters sweep the plain,-- That ne'er breathes forth a joyous note, Though odors on the zephyrs float-- The tribute of a thousand bowers, Rich in their store of fragrant flowers. Yet Oge's was a mind that joyed With nature in her every mood, Whether in sunshine unalloyed With darkness, or in tempest rude And, by the dashing waterfall, Or by the gently flowing river, Or listening to the thunder's call, He'd joy away his life forever. But ah! life is a changeful thing, And pleasures swiftly pass away, And we may turn, with shuddering, From what we sighed for yesterday. The guest, at banquet-table spread With choicest viands, shakes with dread, Nor heeds the goblet bright and fair, Nor tastes the dainties rich and rare, Nor bids his eye with pleasure trace The wreathed flowers that deck the place, If he but knows there is a draught Among the cordials, that, if quaffed, Will send swift poison through his veins. So Oge seems; nor does his eye With pleasure view the flowery plains, The bounding sea, the spangled sky, As, in the short and soft twilight, The stars peep brightly forth in heaven,