There flag-shaped olive leaves depending hung,
And fairy fans from glossy pebbles sprung;
Then her terrestial train the nereids meet,
And lay their spoils saline at Flora's feet.

O! fairest of the fabled forms! that stream, Dress'd by wild Fancy, through the poet's dream, Still may thy attributes of leaves and flowers, Thy gardens rich, and shrub-o'ershadow'd bowers, And yellow meads, with Spring's first honours bright,

The child's gay heart and frolic step invite ;
And while the careless wanderer explores

The' umbrageous forest or the rugged shores,
Climbs the green down, or roams the broom-clad

waste,

May Truth and Nature form his future taste!
Goddess! on youth's bless'd hours thy gifts bestow;
Bind the fair wreath on virgin Beauty's brow,
And still may Fancy's brightest flowers be wove
Round the gold chains of hymeneal love.
But most for those, by Sorrow's hand oppress'd,
May thy beds blossom and thy wilds be dress'd;
And where, by Fortune and the world forgot,
The mourner droops in some sequester'd spot
(Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown'),
O'er blighted happiness for ever gone,
Yet the dear image seeks not to forget,
But woos his grief and cherishes regret;
Loving with fond and lingering pain to mourn
O'er joys and hopes that never will return ;-
Thou, visionary power! mayst bid him view
Forms not less lovely, and as transient too;
And while they soothe the wearied pilgrim's eyes
Afford an antepast of Paradise.

CHARLOTTE SMITH.

TO A LADY WITH A ROSE.

WHEN Venus first from ocean sprung,
With rapture earth exulting rung,
And gave, on that auspicious morn,
The Rose, for Beauty then was born.
The blooming stranger Venus views,
Its balmy blush and daybright hues,
Marks the green fence that guards it round,
For then no jealous thorn was found.
Sweet was her kiss:-The Rose receives
The charm through all the' empassion'd leaves:
In nectar now she bathes the bud,
Now plunges in the purple flood:
Instant, the finish'd Wonder grows
The Type of Love and Beauty's Rose.
To Paphos then she bore the flower,
And planted in her favourite bower,
And watch'd and nursed and tended there,
As yet too young the blast to bear;
Now fearing, folded from the night,
Now waked to meet the morning light;
With her own breath perfumed and fann'd,
Her breath as Zephyr's whisper bland;
And the warm sunshine of her eyes
A soul of fragrant life supplies.
Then ever fair and ever young,
The triumphs of the Rose she sung,
And thus the Daughter of the Main
Prophetic raised the Teian strain-

'Fairest, fondest child of earth,
Pledge of pleasure's infant birth!
When thine early blooms appear,
All shall own our season near.

Thou shalt crown the mantling bowl,

Thou shalt cheer the Lover's soul.
Dear to beauty, dear to love,
Dear to every Muse above!
With the Rose's annual praise
Bards shall purple all their lays;
And when chaplets they compose,
Change the Laurel for the Rose.
Does the swain his wishes breathe?
Rosy bands his brow shall wreathe.
Does he sing the charmer's cheek?
There shall rosy blushes break.
Rise the rosy-bosom'd hours?.
Each shall hail the queen of flowers.
Moves the morn with rosy finger?
O'er thy bud her hand shall linger,
Whilst to thee her melting eyes
Pay their dewy sacrifice.

In the dance delight our Graces ?
Rosy feet shall print their paces;
As their golden ringlets fall,
Wreathed with rosy coronal.
And should either sister dare
Thence the rival Rose to tear,
We will spring a thorn around,
Her invidious touch to wound.
When with sickness faints the heart,
Thou the cordial shalt impart;
In the vase of China's earth
Thou shalt gain a second birth,
And the dead, beyond the tomb,
Steal from thee a lasting bloom.'
Thus sang the Queen of Soft Desire,
The Rose resounding on her lyre;

Then to the boy that bears the bow
Of power to lay the mighty low,
The Rose she gave with rosy smile:-
And haste,' she said, 'to Erin's Isle;
There seek the swain whose heart beats high
At once with love and poesy;

Bid him his softest song employ
To hymn this happy child of joy;
And charge him, as he hopes to gain
One smile of mine, one favour'd strain,
To celebrate our Rose, and sing
This matchless marvel of the spring;
This brightest emblem of our flames,
That Nature gives, that Beauty claims,
That Love's own hand delights to rear,
And Delia best deserves to wear.'

THEOPHILUS SWIFT.

THE BELVIDERE APOLLO.

HEARD ye the arrow hurtle in the sky?
Heard ye the dragon monster's deathful cry?
In settled majesty of fierce disdain,

Proud of his might, yet scornful of the slain,
The heavenly archer stands—no human birth,
No perishable denizen of earth;

Youth blooms immortal in his beardless face,
A god in strength, with more than godlike grace;
All, all divine-no struggling muscle glows,
Through heaving vein no mantling life blood flows,
But animate with deity alone,

In deathless glory lives the breathing stone.

Bright kindling with a conqueror's stern delight, His keen eye tracks the arrow's fateful flight*; Burns his indignant cheek with vengeful fire, And his lip kindles with insulting ire:

Firm fix'd his tread, yet light, as when on high
He walks the' impalpable and pathless sky:
The rich luxuriance of his hair, confined
In graceful ringlets, wantons on the wind,
That lifts in sport his mantle's drooping fold,
Proud to display that form of faultless mould.

Mighty Ephesian+! with an eagle's flight
Thy proud soul mounted through the fields of light,
Viewed the bright concave of heaven's bless'd
And the cold marble leapt to life a god: [abode,
Contagious awe through breathless myriads ran,
And nations bowed before the work of man.
For mild he seem'd, as in Elysian bowers,
Wasting in careless ease the joyous hours;
Haughty, as bards have sung, with princely sway
Curbing the fierce flame-breathing steeds of day;
Beauteous as vision seen in dreamy sleep
By holy maid on Delphi's haunted steep,
Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove,
Too fair to worship, too divine to love.

Yet on that form in wild delirious trance With more than reverence gazed the Maid of France +;

Day after day the lovesick dreamer stood

With him alone, nor thought it solitude;

*The Apollo is in the act of watching the arrow with which he slew the serpent Python.

† Agasias of Ephesus.

The foregoing fact is related in the work of M. Pinel Sur 'Insanite.