Yes, my blest hours have fled without a trace: In vain I strove their parting to delay; Brightly they beamed, then left a cheerless space, Like an o'erclouded smile, that in the face Lightens, and fades away. _Fraser's Magazine_ THE MORNING OF LIFE. _("Le voile du matin.")_ [Bk. V. viii., April, 1822.] The mist of the morning is torn by the peaks, Old towers gleam white in the ray, And already the glory so joyously seeks The lark that's saluting the day. Then smile away, man, at the heavens so fair, Though, were you swept hence in the night, From your dark, lonely tomb the owlets would stare At the sun rising newly as bright. But out of earth's trammels your soul would have flown Where glitters Eternity's stream, And you shall have waked 'midst pure glories unknown, As sunshine disperses a dream. BELOVED NAME. _("Le parfum d'un lis.")_ [Bk. V. xiii.] The lily's perfume pure, fame's crown of light, The latest murmur of departing day, Fond friendship's plaint, that melts at piteous sight, The mystic farewell of each hour at flight, The kiss which beauty grants with coy delay,-- The sevenfold scarf that parting storms bestow As trophy to the proud, triumphant sun; The thrilling accent of a voice we know, The love-enthralled maiden's secret vow, An infant's dream, ere life's first sands be run,-- The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh, Which erst inspired the fabled Memnon's frame,-- The melodies that, hummed, so trembling die,-- The sweetest gems that 'mid thought's treasures lie, Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME! Low be its utterance, like a prayer divine, Yet in each warbled song be heard the sound; Be it the light in darksome fanes to shine, The sacred word which at some hidden shrine, The selfsame voice forever makes resound! O friends! ere yet, in living strains of flame, My muse, bewildered in her circlings wide, With names the vaunting lips of pride proclaim, Shall dare to blend the _one_, the purer name, Which love a treasure in my breast doth hide,-- Must the wild lay my faithful harp can sing, Be like the hymns which mortals, kneeling, hear; To solemn harmonies attuned the string, As, music show'ring from his viewless wing, On heavenly airs some angel hovered near. CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY) THE PORTRAIT OF A CHILD. _("Oui, ce front, ce sourire.")_ [Bk. V. xxii., November, 1825.]