Give me the poet’s lyre! And as the seraph in his orbit sings, Oh, may I strike the heaven-attuned strings, With a seraphic fire! With music fill the mighty dome of mind, And the rapt souls of men in music brightly bind! _J. W. H._ * * * * * Trace the young poet’s fate; Fresh from his solitude, the child of dreams, His heart upon his lips he seeks the world, To find him fame and fortune, as if life Were like a fairy tale. His song has led The way before him; flatteries fill his ear, His presence courted, and his words are caught; And he seems happy in so many friends. What marvel if he somewhat overrate His talents and his state? These scenes soon change. The vain, who sought to mix their name with his; The curious, who but live for some new sight; The idle--all these have been gratified, And now neglect stings even more than scorn. _Miss Landon._ LILAC.... _First Emotions of Love_. The freshness of the verdure of the Lilac; the flexibility of its branches; the profusion of its flowers; their transitory beauty and their soft hues,--all remind us of those emotions which embellish beauty, and throw such a light around our youthful hours. It is said that Van Spaendonc himself threw down his pencil on viewing a group of Lilacs. Nature seems to have delighted in creating its delicate clusters, which astonish by their beauty and variety. The fragrance of the flowers is even more gratifying than their beauty. * * * * * She had grown, In her unstained seclusion, bright and pure As a first opening Lilac, when it spreads Its clear leaves to the sweetest dawn of May. _Percival._ * * * * * When first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond, My purest, first-born love, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong, as that I felt for thee. _Mrs. Norton._ * * * * * I love thee,--and I live! The moon, Who sees me from her calm above, The wind, who weaves her dim, soft tune About me, know how much I love! Naught else, save night, and the lonely hour, E’er heard my passion wild and strong; Even _thou_ yet deem’st not of thy power, Unless thou read’st aright my song! _Barry Cornwall._ * * * * * She loves--but knows not whom she loves, Nor what his race, nor whence he came;-- Like one who meets, in Indian groves, Some beauteous bird without a name, Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, From isles in the undiscovered seas, To show his plumage for a day To wondering eyes, and wing away! _Moore._