And am I doom'd to be denied for ever The blessings that to all around are given? And shall those links be re-united ever, That bound me to mankind till they were riven In childhood's day? Alas! how soon to sever From social intercourse, the doom of heaven Was pass'd upon me! And the hope how vain, That the decree may be recall'd again. Amid a throng in deep attention bound, To catch the accents that from others fall, The flow of eloquence the heavenly sound Breathed from the soul of melody, while all Instructed or delighted list around, Vacant unconsciousness must _me_ enthrall! I can but watch each animated face, And there attempt th' inspiring theme to trace. Unheard, unheeded are the lips by _me_, To others that unfold some heaven-born art, And melody--Oh, dearest melody! How had thine accents, thrilling to my heart, Awaken'd all its strings to sympathy, Bidding the spirit at thy magic start! How had my heart responsive to the strain, Throbb'd in love's wild delight or soothing pain. In vain--alas, in vain! thy numbers roll-- Within my heart no echo they inspire; Though form'd by nature in thy sweet control, To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire, Misfortune closed the portals of the soul; And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre, That can to animation kindle stone, To me thy thrilling power must be unknown. THE GREEN ISLE OF LOVERS. BY R. C. SANDS. They say that afar in the land of the west, Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, 'Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread; Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers. There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom, Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume; And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depress'd, All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east; There the bright eye of nature, in mild glory hovers: 'Tis the land of the sunbeam,--the green isle of lovers! Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss; Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires The dance and the revel, 'mid forests that cover On high with their shade the green isle of the lover. But fierce as the snake with his eyeballs of fire, When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire, Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle, Whose law is their will, whose life is their smile; From beauty there valour and strength are not rovers, And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.