No verses here!--Verse would despair of raising Aught save an image dark and faint of thee; But gently in yon basin's mirror gazing Behold thyself! Embodied Poesy! When through the kiosque's grated ogive straying, The sea-breeze mingles with the Moka's fume, Where softly o'er thy form the moonbeams playing Glance on thy couch, rich from Palmyra's loom-- When on the jasmine tube thy lip half closes, Veiled with its golden threads in bright array, While ruffling at thy breath, fragrant with roses, Murmur the drops within the Narquite-- When as winged perfumes rise into thy brain, In light caressing clouds around thee wreathing All love's and youth's lost visions throng again, An atmosphere of dreams thy listeners breathing-- When in thy tale the Arab steed forth starting Yields foaming to thy curb of infancy, And that triumphant glance obliquely darting Equals the summer-lightning of his eye-- When thy fair arm, of loveliest symmetry, Supports the fairer brow in thought reclining, While gleams with diamond fires thy poniard nigh In quick reflection of the torch's shining-- Naught is there in the murmured words of feeling, Naught in the Poet's ever dreaming brow, Naught in pure sighs from purest bosoms stealing, Naught redolent of Poesy as thou! With me the age has flown when Love, life's flower, Perfumes the heart--my warmest accents falter, And beauty o'er my soul has lost her power-- Cold is the light I kindle on her altar! The harp is this chilled bosom's only queen, But how would homage from its depths have burst In gushing minstrelsy at bright sixteen, If _then_ these eyes had rested on thee first! How many stanzas had thy lover given To one sweet vaporous wreath that lately graced Thy meditative lip, or how had striven To stay that form by unseen artist traced! That shadow's vague enchanting outline cast On yonder wall, to arrest with poet's finger Thy beauty's mystic image fading fast, As round thy form fond moonbeams cease to linger! [Footnote 1: The road of heaven, star-paved. PARADISE LOST] PHANTOMS ALL. A PHANTASY. BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER. It was with a feeling of regret, such as stirs one's heart at parting with a dear friend, that I turned the last page of Irving's most delightful visit to Abbotsford, which he has given us in language so beautiful from its simplicity, so graphic in its details, and so heart-deep in its sincerity, that with him we ourselves seem to be partakers also of the hospitality and kindness of the immortal Scott. "Every night," says Irving, "I retired with my mind filled with delightful recollections of the day, and every morning I arose with the certainty of new enjoyment."