My spirit dwelleth in myrtle bowers, Where the breezes wax faint with the perfume of flowers, And the queen rose blushes a brighter hue, As I shed o’er her leaves, the early dew. On a sunbeam I sit enthron’d in light, And chase with my wand the shades of night, And oft beneath the moon’s pale beam I weave with sweet fancies the maiden’s dream. Deep in the woods, the nightingale Telleth to me her love-lorn tale; With the glorious lark, I soar on high As her thrilling notes ring thro’ earth and sky. I love to skim o’er the pathless seas, Syren-like, singing sweet melodies, And the home-sick mariner feels my power In the loneliness of that star-lit hour. But, oh! far more do I love to sip The fragrant dew on beauty’s lip, To braid each tress of her wavy hair, And tinge with bright blushes her cheek so fair: O’er the poet’s couch my spirit bendeth, And my form with his visions softly blendeth, While he whose soul sweet music fires I glad with the strains of the seraph choirs. * * * * * _April 27th._—The old adage, “Love is blind,” is by no means true, at least in my case. Cupid for me never fails to put on a pair of magnifying glasses, which have the power of exaggerating alike the virtues and defects of those who have with me entered the lists of the tournament of love. I have detested many an admirer for “trifles light as air,” cruelly criticising his dress, voice, manner, or tastes; and I once took a fancy to a person, mainly because his gloves fitted exquisitely—and had the other qualities corresponded, my fancy would, doubtless, have taken other shape. But, to return. To what a severe scrutiny have I not subjected Philip D’Arcy; but, “alas! and well-a-day,” I find no fault in him. Men frequently term him effeminate-looking; and it is true, that he is formed in a delicate, rather than a robust mould; but this suits well with that spiritual style of beauty so pre-eminent in him: and who could fail to read in the _pose_ of that noble head, in the expression of the compressed and chiselled lips, moral grandeur, indomitable will. Women, too, frequently call him cold. Ah! they have not marked, as I have, that glance of flame which (rarely, it is true) flashes from the depth of those orbs, usually so serene, so untroubled. The volcano may be smouldering, but it is not extinct. Long years of self-control may have schooled the heart; but its pulses, nevertheless, throb warmly, passionately, humanly, still. * * * * *