I was not thinking of _another_ then, In thy sweet face her features imaging, Tracing each thought-print o'er them--watching when Hope's earnest breathings to my lips might spring; Nor this--nor fame--though her ascending star Might shed its glory in a halo o'er me; No thought like this, that moment, rose to mar The vision that in beauty stood before me! But it was marr'd, for even then the feeling Came o'er me, that thou never couldst be mine! And in the cloud of sadness, gently stealing Like a dim shadow o'er that brow of thine, I read my destiny. Oh! life can bring No darker doom--no wo that may inherit So much of bitterness--no rack to ring With deeper agony, my fainting spirit. To dwell, in thought, upon one image still, Till it becomes a portion of our being, Hath fix'd its features in the eye, until It hath become a part of sight--thus seeing, Even in tree, and rock, and rill, and flower, A form of borrow'd beauty, and a spell-- A spirit of unspeakable heart--power-- To move the waters in our soul's deep well! Till every thought, that like a wavelet, breaks Upon the surface of life's charmed pool, Circling instinctively, unbidden, takes Form, hue, direction, from that magic rule! What is it but the yearning of the soul Toward one allied to it by heavenly birth? And seeking to unite, blend, melt the whole Into one miracle of love on earth! Such have my feelings been--thy soul to mine Came robed in radiance of such heavenly hue, My spirit clasped it as a thing divine; And while I dreamed they into oneness grew, I suddenly awaked, to know that vision Had not appeared to any one but me! Why did I learn, waked from that dream elysian, A sister's love was all I shared with thee! THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF THE "DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE," ETC. There was no inhabitant of all the East more favored by nature and by fortune than Adakar, son of Benhadad, of the famous city of Damascus, which Musselmen call the Paradise of the earth. He was young, rich, and beautiful; and being early left without parents, had run the race of sensual pleasures by the time his beard was grown. He became sated with enjoyment, and now passed much of his time in a spacious garden which belonged to him, through which the little river Barady, which flows from Mount Hermon, meandered among beds of flowers, and groves of oranges, pomegranates, and citrons, whose mingled odors perfumed the surrounding air.